


doing it wrong

by lavish (valerian)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Porn, Blowjobs, Breeding, Creampies, Dark, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Kinky, Knotting, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Shameless Smut, elements of non-con, handjobs, jealous!hermione, lol, other filthy tags tbd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-05 23:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13399035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/lavish
Summary: They must fuck to maintain the order of the universe.





	1. the consumption

 

It starts as a bout of horniness, easily satiated by masturbation. Hermione does not question why the lust comes on, blaming the hormonal changes of her menstrual cycle. Her fingers, some candlelight, and a couple of romance novels do the trick.

There is nothing to worry about.

But then, suddenly there is. There _is_ something to worry about. 

Because it grows, this lust, from an itch she must scratch to something wild and frightening. 

She's sitting at her desk at the Ministry of Magic when it hits her: making her heart hammer, her clit pulse. She sweats profusely and grips the armrests of her chair, overcome with the sudden impulse to fuck any and every man sitting within a ten foot radius of her. They all look like viable sexual partners, which is insane, 'cuz Wellheart is a married man with little hair and a beer belly and Collins is a grandfather in his eighties. Griffin Abbott she’s maybe considered once or twice, but gods damn it, _no_ , she cannot just _proposition somebody she works with—_

The heat does not fade over the next day, so she sees a couple of healers about it. They aren’t half as alarmed by the condition as she is; they prescribe calming draughts, which are expensive to both buy and to brew, and various tonics intended to keep her level-headed. The tonics don’t do a thing, and though the calming draughts do take the edge off, the underlying need to fuck remains, present and alive, consuming her every waking thought, distressing her, making her cry…

She takes three days off work to hide from the world. (To masturbate.) To consult Muggle sex therapists and texts on sexual desire and addiction. (To masturbate.)

But neither therapists nor books offer any answers. Masturbation barely even helps, because her lust runs beyond the simple need to achieve orgasm.She needs penetration, a nice and thick cock to just _destroy_ her, ropes of cum to coat her cunt…

Pity she and Ron had broken up a couple of months ago. After almost two years of dating, they had split, and for good reason (ie., jealousy and all its baggage). But, at the least, if he were here he could fill this _need_.

But he’s “on sabbatical” with Harry somewhere in the Alps, seeking closure and inner peace, so Hermione must consider the other men in her life. She’s well aware that very few would object to her invitation (to fuck the shit out of me, right now, I need it, _please), b_ ut she’s also aware that booty calls have repercussions, and she’s never really been into one-night-stands anyway.

Day five of her heat inspires another visit to a healer. This time she seeks a second opinion not at St. Mungo’s but somewhere a little less reputable, a little more open-minded.

Hermione turns down a musty, narrow lane of Knockturn Alley, the hood of her cloak drawn close to her head. She approaches The Spiny Serpent, a drab gray-colored building with an inconspicuous storefront. With her gaze trained on the Speakeasy-style door viewer, she knocks.

The door viewer slides open. Purple eyes glare down at her.

“Password?”

“ _Aesculapius_ _vivat_ ,” she mutters.

The wooden door creaks open slowly. Hermione pushes through and steps into probably the shadiest clinic that’s ever existed. Only one gas lamp hangs from the ceiling, and the walls are lined entirely with shelves that feature old books, jars of animal hearts, and rusted metal instruments, the purposes of which Hermione doesn’t dare imagine.

“Miss Granger,” a silky voice whispers from behind a black velvet curtain at the back of the store. “Back so soon?”

Hermione gnaws on her lower lip, shame flushing her face red. She had been in the Spiny Serpent not too long ago, seeking the embalmed liver of a _very_ rare creature. The potion that had called for such an ingredient had not proved to be successful; however, in her interactions with the proprietor of The Spiny Serpent, she had learned that he was a master of mystic diseases and afflictions.

“Did the Wrath of Echinacea not work out?” the proprietor asks.

“Actually, I’ve come for a more personal consult.” She sweeps the velvet curtain aside. “If you please.”

The proprietor is a bald old man with a hunched back. His face is lined with wrinkles and age spots, but his hands are eerily white and smooth. His purple eyes flash when they meet hers. “Certainly. Come, come.” He gestures for her to sit down on an old, squeaky gurney.

She does.

He asks her for what reason she needs his help today.

She tells him.

He laughs, a wheezing sort of noise. “Oh dear, oh dear. That sounds awful.”

Hermione scowls. “You have no idea.”

“I have an inkling as to what this may be, but first I’ll need to do a bit of inspecting.” He summons a magnifying glass to his hand.

Hermione raises her eyebrows. “Fine. But I’m not removing any more clothing than clinically and medically necessary.”

“You need not worry, dear.” The old man grins, his teeth yellow and sharp. “I simply need to look upon your lower back.”

Hermione shudders to raise her shirt for this creepy old man, but she does it all the same. She would do anything to cure herself of this great and terrible lust. She can’t live this way forever...she just _can’t_.

“Hm. Just as I thought.” The old man touches a spot at the base of her spine. “You have been marked for a very rare condition. A very rare condition indeed.”

Her heart races. “What is it?”

“You, Miss Granger, have been marked to be an Alpha.”

“An Alpha?” Her mind buzzes at the familiarity of the concept. “You mean…like somebody who leads a werewolf pack?”

“No. It’s far more mystical than that.” The old man steps back and pulls Hermione to her feet. He guides her to a standing mirror at the front of the store.

“See for yourself.” He hands her the magnifying glass.

Hermione lifts the back of her shirt and twists until she can see the mark. Indeed, there’s a small, white patch of discoloration right at the base of her spine, where the muscles of her bottom begin. She passes the magnifying glass over the mark, and it becomes apparent that the mark is shaped like the Greek letter for Alpha.

“I still don’t understand,” she whispers. “What does it mean?”

“It means that you are in heat and will always be in heat, until you find your other half. The only person who can satisfy you. Your Omega.”

Hermione stills and drops her shirt. “Are you telling me that there’s no end to this lust?”

“Not until you are well and truly satisfied by your Omega.”

She closes her eyes, the healer’s words sinking in. “I—don’t—believe you,” she sputters. “This kind of stuff is myth, is _fiction!_ There’s never been proof that this happens in reality—“

The healer sweeps over to a bookshelf, begins to pull out dusty, ancient-looking tomes. “There are texts for you to examine yourself, if you wish.” He drops the books onto a small writing desk. “Firsthand accounts from history, records of the devastation of this lust.” He grins. “Or have you forgotten Caligula? Genghis Khan? The likes of Marquis de Sade and Elizabeth Bathory? The lust of powerful Alphas have wreaked havoc upon humanity from the beginning of time.”

Hermione stumbles toward the books. The calming draught she had taken right before she’d Floo’d into Knockturn Alley has done little to soothe the pulsing of her clitoris. It aches now, sweetly.

“One could argue they were just psychopaths. What other proof do you have?” she asks through gritted teeth, flipping open the first book she sees. Its pages are stiff, the words handwritten in old English. The first line she can comprehend states that “ _This lust is magnitudinous. With every breath, I am becoming less myself and more a monster._ ”

“The proof is in the fact that you have that mark, Miss Granger. By the looks of it, it is new, your condition likely triggered by some major change in your life.”

Hermione swallows, thinking about her break-up with Ron. “Well, what else do I need to know then? Tell me.”

The healer shrugs. “You will simply have to find your Omega. Sexual intercourse with your mate is the only known cure for this lust.” He disappears behind the velvet curtain again. “Just be glad you yourself are not an Omega, Miss Granger. For as terrible as this lust is for you, it’s doubly worse for your mate.”

Hermione follows him back behind the curtain. “How so?”

“Omegas never fulfilled by their Alphas become frightened, vulnerable little things. Their fears consume them, spiral them into depression. Or madness. They become obsessed with the idea that they are alone. That they don’t deserve happiness. That they must find other ways to satisfy the hunger within them…”

Hermione clenches her fists. It’s strange that she feels physical pain hearing those things about some—no, _her_ unknown Omega, out there in the world, miserable and alone. _Come for me_ , flits across her brain in a voice she doesn’t recognize. _Please._

“How do I find my Omega?” she begs the healer. “Surely you can tell me that much.”

He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. What is meant to be will be.”

Hermione wipes at the sweat beading on her brow, at the tears building on the corner of her eyes. “Well, can you at least tell me how to manage this lust?”

He gives her a list of ingredients for an extra-powerful calming drought, selling her some of the required materials at a discount. His face is remorseful. “This is not a prognosis I like to give. And I’ve only given it once before.”

“To whom?” Hermione asks.

“Patient-provider privacy laws and all that Miss Granger.” He smiles. “I can’t tell you.”

She groans, frustrated. “Can I at least borrow some of your books about this Alpha and Omega nonsense?”

“Certainly. Take as many as you like.” He gathers an armful of the texts he had pulled from the shelves and shoves them into her arms.

Hermione staggers under their weight. “Thank you,” she says. “Maybe…maybe I can glean something from them.”

The healer’s voice is grave when he says, “Here’s hoping that you do, Miss Granger.”

 

 

 

And she does. Kind of. She learns that the relationship between an Alpha and an Omega is akin to that of soulmates, but where soulmates may have platonic relationships, Alphas and Omegas are destined for sexual reciprocity.

And also for breeding.

Indeed, the old English diary, which belonged to a male Alpha living in the 1500s, goes into great detail about the breeding instinct. About the satisfaction of fucking his Omega on the daily, of drenching her womb with his seed.

He goes into something called “knotting,” as well: the process of inseminating his mate for minutes and minutes on end, his genitalia physically unable to separate from hers until he unloads his come entirely.

Hermione shivers reading this. His accounts are filthy, and they only stoke her hunger. She must find her Omega, she vows, although it’s unclear to what ends of the Earth she will have to travel to achieve this.

 

 

 

As fate would have it, however, Hermione doesn’t have to travel far, or much at all.

Two weeks after her heat starts, on the brink of her twenty-first birthday, she is brought to her Omega. Quite randomly, at that, and not by her own doing.

One second she’s walking down a corridor at the Ministry of Magic, and in the next second she’s falling and landing face first onto an open book.

On a bed. One with a deep green duvet and stark white sheets. On the bedframe hangs a deep green curtain; a quick glance at the space confirms that this is the room of a Slytherin student. A Head student, to be specific, given that there are no other beds in the dorm and that there’s a door to a private bathroom.

Hermione steps carefully off the bed and grabs the book, which is leather bound and probably a diary of some kind. The pages, however, offer up no information. They are conspicuously blank.

She sets it back onto the bed and breathes, attempting to think, Hermione, _think_. _You’re back at Hogwarts. You’re in a Slytherin’s bedroom. Someone must have summoned you._

And likely by mistake. A spell gone wrong; that happens a lot at Hogwarts.

Still, it’d be strange for her to emerge all of a sudden from the bedroom of a student. And additional snooping around confirms that this is the bedroom of a _male_ student.

McGonagall would have stern words about the appropriateness of all this.

So Hermione casts a Disillusionment charm on herself before exiting the room. She steps quietly down the white marble staircase into the Slytherin common room. To her relief, there are no students milling about. A glance at the stately grandfather clock on the far side of the room tells her it’s dinner time.

She leaves the common room and slips into the corridor outside. A few students pass and stare curiously at the common room door opening and closing seemingly by itself.

Hermione casts a quick _muffliato_ to disguise the clicking of her high heels. _Gods damn the Ministry’s sexist dress code._

She powers through the dungeons, into the main castle. Her first instinct is simply to leave, but if a student is practicing a rather dangerous summoning charm, McGonagall ought to know.

It is only standing outside the Headmaster’s office, however, that Hermione notices something off about Hogwarts.

The tower's limestone walls, for one, look old. Worn. Very much unlike the new stones that had been installed following the Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione stares at the gargoyle guarding the steps. It too looks very much _old_. Like it had never been replaced after being blown apart during the fight.

Had she…had she been thrown back into time? It’s the only explanation for why the building is the way it is.

Hermione rushes down the second-floor staircase and into an empty classroom on the first-floor. She lifts the Disillusionment charm and transfigures her work robes into a generic, house-less Hogwart’s uniform, her high heels into a pair of Oxfords. She pulls a hair tie from the beaded bag she still carries out of habit and attempts to wrangle her hair into a bun.

It’s a futile effort given the sheer volume of hair she must contend with; she settles for a messy ponytail that’s more bird’s nest than hairstyle.

She contemplates magically altering her features to disguise her face, but ultimately decides against it. For all she knows, she could be further back in time than when she herself had attended Hogwarts.

But what if she isn’t? Words of warning flash across her mind: _awful things happen to those who meddle with time._ And if her past-self were to accidentally encounter her present-self, she would go _mad._

She has to know when she is, she _needs to know_ —she darts out of the classroom and ambushes an unsuspecting first-year Slytherin boy, whose chubby cheeks flush red at her sudden appearance.

“Excuse me,” she asks, her voice falsely cheerful. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Um…September 2nd…?”

“Yes, but what year?”

The boy blinks, confused. “Nineteen forty-four, of course.”

Panic rises in Hermione. A hysterical laugh escapes her. “Oh. Great. Thank you!” she squawks.

The boy scurries away, and Hermione slumps against the wall, her legs refusing to work.

“1944…” Bullocks. _Bullocks._ Her mind races with attempts to recall this year in history, but she’s too overcome to remember much. Grindelwald alive…Dippet headmaster of the school…Dumbledore—

“Dumbledore!”

He’s here. He has to be here, she thinks, forcing herself to stand on wobbly legs. _He’ll have answers, a solution, a way out…_

But her legs _really_ don’t want to work. Hermione slumps back against the wall, slides onto the floor. There is relief in knowing that she can’t run into herself, but it’s not enough to make up for the fact that she’s _trapped in the past_.

And hadn’t—hadn’t Lord Voldemort gone to Hogwarts at this time?

Another hysterical laugh bubbles in her throat. Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and decides that she must be logical, given that cooler heads prevail and all that. She’ll simply assimilate until she’s thrown back into the future...or until she _finds_ a way back. Yes, yes…surely there will be books with such wisdom in the library. She will pretend to be a student here; she’ll comb through the texts until she finds an answer.

Her reverie is broken suddenly by her lust rearing its head again. _Fuck._ The calming draught prescribed by the healer at The Spiny Serpent had reduced it to a manageable, low simmer over the past couple of weeks.

But the lust returns now with a vengeance.

Her head spins, her heart thumps. Her throat is dry as she groans; her clit aches so sweetly, and she’s dying to touch herself, n _ow._

It’s hardly helping that a very delicious scent is wafting down the corridor. It’s heady and full-bodied, like the scent of earth after rain, the pages of a book fresh off the press, and bedsheets after sex—

“Excuse me, miss.”

She turns her head toward the sound of a smooth, masculine voice echoing down the corridor. “Might I ask your name?” he says.

Hermione struggles to her feet again. It’s as if every cell in her body is vibrating. Singing. “Hermione Gran—Grainville,” she says lamely. Her hands ball into fists as she squints down the corridor at a tall, dark-haired student standing there. Not approaching her.

“Are you lost, Miss Grainville?”

“No.” She plasters a smile onto her face, her left eye starting to twitch. “I mean yes. I am. Lost. On the way to—“ She inhales sharply, forcing her thighs together to alleviate the _itch,_ the _need_. “T-To Dumbledore’s o-office. If you could. Point me there.”

A few beats of silence. “Are you not well?” the student asks.

Hermione inches toward him shakily. “I’m okay.” She lets out a groan as that _scent_ hits her anew. “O-On second thought—could you point me to the—ladies’ room—“

“I certainly could,” he drawls. “But first tell me why you need to see Professor Dumbledore.”

“It’s kind of an emergency,” she exhales. “So if you could just—just—“

It happens then, on September 2, 1944.

The full consumption of Hermione Granger.

That’s what it’s called anyway, when an Alpha meets her Omega for the first time.

When an Alpha is gripped so furiously by the need to _mate_ that she loses herself, her thoughts, her fears, her mind.

When all she can concentrate on is the fact that he’s standing right there, and he has everything she needs to be whole.

She stalks toward this unknown student: tall, dark, and handsome to the point of being beautiful, the weakness in her legs gone, her stride full of purpose.

As she draws closer to him, his gray eyes dilate to black; his mouth falls open. “Do I know you?” he asks.

Hermione doesn’t bother answering. It’s a silly question, given that oh, he will know her. He will know her very well.

She stands on tiptoe and rakes her hands through his luscious, black hair. He tenses immediately at her touch, and then just as quickly, he relaxes. He goes docile in her grip, allowing her to draw his head down, to bring his neck closer to her lips.

She breathes him in. He smells like clean laundry, an entire forest. She nuzzles and nips at the soft, pale skin of his neck.

He whines.

“What—are you doing to me?” he gasps.

“Mine,” Hermione moans. She presses him down onto his knees, sinking to her own. “You’re mine,” she hisses, yanking at the clasps of his robes, reaching underneath his sweater, his shirt to palm at the taut skin of his abdomen.

He whimpers at her touch. “Who are you?” he breathes.

“Somebody very, _very_ important to you.” She presses kisses along his jaw. And she can sense him fighting it—his lust—and thereby fighting _her_ —his _master—_

“Don’t fight it.” She kisses the outer shell of his ear, tongues the soft flesh of his earlobe. “You’re _mine.”_

“You—keep saying that.” His whole body tenses. “But I don’t belong to anyone. Much less—to a common _whore—_ ”

She shoves him onto his back, straddling him. “I’m not a whore.” She ruts against the growing bulge at the front of his trousers. _Gods,_ that feels _soooooo_ good.

“I’m your mate.” She rolls her already wet, panty-clad cunt against him again. “ _Fuck,_ you feel amazing, baby.” She leans in to lick his plush bottom lip. "I can't wait for you to fuck me _raw_."

He sighs desperately, bucking upward to meet her rutting, but then as though catching himself halfway, he stops and growls, low in his throat. “For whatever you’ve hexed me with, you bitch, I will have you _thrown_ into _Azkaban_ —“

She smiles against his cheek. "You wouldn't." 

"I  _would—"_

“Get _off_ him, slut!” a shrill voice screams distantly. Hermione looks up just in time to see a jet of red light speed toward her.

It hits her right in the chest and blasts her down the corridor, straight into a wall. The back of her head smacks against the stone; as she struggles to remain conscious, she spies a dark haired girl bend over _her Omega_ , and right before she passes out, Hermione’s last thoughts are of rage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Back at it again with the enemies-to-lovers smut fics. I'm so predictable, but who cares. This has looooong been a guilty pleasure ship of mine, and I wanna write it finally. Also, the fic's title is inspired by the Drake song of the same name. God, I love him... This is legit like the third fic I've named after one of his songs. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. the connection

 

She regains consciousness a few times over the next three days.

The first time, she wakes in a bed, to a harried-looking woman muttering a string of spells over her head. Whatever the spells are knock Hermione out again, immediately.

The second time, she wakes to that same harried-looking woman (the school healer?) fluffing her pillows. Hermione wants to thank her but can’t muster up the voice or energy to do so. She can only blink, once, twice, quite blearily.

“Shhhh, dear.” The healer has kind eyes and frizzy hair. She presses a cool, damp towel onto Hermione’s forehead. “Take it easy. You hit your head quite hard. Cracked your skull right open actually. But rest assured it’s fixed now.”

Hermione manages a small nod, and _ow_ , her _head._ It hurts to move even a little.

“Would you like water and a sleeping potion, dear? You need to rest up well and good if you want to feel better.”

Hermione nods again. The healer helps her take a few sips of water from a glass. Then Hermione chugs the potion, the lull of sleep a massive relief from the pain.

The third time, she wakes to darkness: nighttime in the hospital wing. Her head does not hurt anymore, and the clarity of her mind is shocking. She hasn’t felt so lucid in weeks, actually—not since before her heat began.

She wants to savor this clarity of mind, and she should take advantage of it…she should seek out Dumbledore and explain her predicament, yes—it may be an early hour, judging by the snoring coming from a bed further down the hall, but Hermione can’t _stay_ here. This isn’t her home, this isn’t even her _time_. Dumbledore would understand; this is an emergency situation.

Her stomach churns then, remembering what she had said and done to that _poor_ _student_. A hot wave of shame courses through her, along with embarrassment. She had assaulted a stranger, an innocent bystander.

 _She_ , Hermione Jean Granger, assaulting a Hogwarts student! Never mind that he’s probably her Omega; she had lost herself completely at the mere sight of him, at that _gorgeous_ face, pale and symmetrical and offensively attractive…

Ah, _shit_. Her clarity of mind dissolves quickly and is replaced by a sense of longing, a craving for her beautiful mate, who had clearly not realized that they were bound. It had been obvious from his disgust at her pouncing on him, his calling her a “common whore.”

Not that she can blame him for the insult. Anybody would’ve come to that conclusion if they too had been attacked out of the blue.

Pushing herself up into a seated position, Hermione feels around the bedside table for her robes. The kind, frizzy-haired healer had removed them for Hermione’s comfort; Hermione now pulls her robes onto her lap and reaches a hand into her cloak pocket for her beaded bag.

She feels around for a few seconds, her fingers not brushing up against anything but fabric. Panic builds in her stomach—no, no, her bag can’t be missing. It just _can’t_ be…there are things in there that would be more than a little confusing for anyone in this time period to find, much less a magical person.

For one, she carries her Muggle passport with her, given her penchant for taking planes to Australia every three months to visit her parents. (Flying on an airplane had always been one of Hermione’s favorite, most indulgent Muggle activities.)

And then there’s the fact that she also keeps her Muggle credit cards in her bag. _Merlin_ , credit cards haven’t even been invented in this time period, have they?

As if it isn’t bad enough that all these documents have her full name and other identifying information printed on them, she’d also stuffed a copy of _The Twisted Dynamics of the Alpha and the Omega_ into her bag to read during lunch breaks.

Great. Hermione groans, knowing now that her cover is blown. Somebody’s definitely stolen her bag and probably thinks her some kind of pervert. Thank _gods_ her wand is still with her, tucked up her right sleeve. She pulls it out to light the candle on her bedside table. Maybe the bag had fallen to the floor? She bends over the side of the bed to check.

“Looking for something?”

Hermione looks up at the sound of that melodious, masculine voice. She breathes deeply. _Mmmm…_

“What’s your name?” she asks her Omega, her tall and handsome mate. Thick black hair, parted neatly, falls over his forehead. Even with dark circles under his eyes, obvious indicators that he hasn’t slept for days, he is beautiful.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” He pulls her bag out of his pocket. “Oh, wait. I already know who you are, Hermione Granger. Born September 19, 1979.”

Hermione gulps and sits back against her pillow. “Ah. I can explain.”

“Yes, please do.” He smiles then, a slight curling of his lips, and while it’s a contemptuous smile, it’s lovely all the same.

Hermione clenches her fists, the desire to kiss the snooty expression off his face so strong. “I…You see…” Possible excuses, reasons for her being here run through her mind a mile a minute, but even in her head, they all sound ridiculous and transparent.

She decides to tell the truth. (It’s bound to come out anyway.) “Um. It’s true that I’m not of this time.” She licks her lips, her eyes darting to his fingers, long and smooth. “I was—sent here.”

He steps toward her bed and arches one perfect eyebrow. “By whom?”

“I have no idea,” she says, swallowing again, her eyes not leaving his fingers. She needs to touch his beautiful hand _._ She reaches for him—

He steps back. “Don’t touch me!” he spits.

Hermione must admit that it hurts, like _physically_ hurts, to be rejected by him. Her heart contracts at his vitriol as she pulls her hand back; she schools her features, trying not to let him see her pain.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asks.

“I’m not afraid of anything or anyone, much less you.”

“Then why are you being so cold to me?”

“Have you forgotten that you attacked me three days ago?” He moves toward her again. He smells _delicious._ “I have every reason not to trust you.”

“Fine. That’s fair. You don’t know me, and I could be dangerous.” Her fingers curl around her wand. “I could’ve been sent from the future to kill you.”

“But you’re not,” he says. “You’re not here to _kill_ me.”

To Hermione’s utter and sudden delight, he climbs onto her bed and straddles her legs. He pulls out his wand and flicks it twice; the curtains around the bed draw closed. An oppressive hush falls upon Hermione’s ears.

“No, you’re not here to kill me.” Her Omega grins, his legs tight on either side of her thighs. Hermione regrets that she’s still covered by blankets.

“How are you so sure?” she asks, lifting her chin to look into his eyes. They are dark, almost black.

He waves his wand again, and her limbs are suddenly stiff. Immobile. He plucks her wand from her grasp and sticks it into his robes. “I found something else in your bag. Something interesting,” he says.

Hermione strains against his body-binding curse, her heart beginning to beat rather quickly at the pressure of him against her lap. She’s _dying_ to touch his skin. She whines, surprised to find that she can still move her tongue, can still produce sound from her throat. “What is it?”

He pulls _The Twisted Dynamics of the Alpha and the Omega_ from his robes and holds the book up for Hermione’s inspection. “I’ve been doing a bit of reading while you were out. I’ve learned quite a lot.”

The smooth, bare skin of his neck gleams white by the light of the moon; Hermione wishes desperately to lick him, to taste him. “Tell me,” she says gamely. “What exactly have you learned?”

“That you were sent back here to _fuck_ me, weren’t you? Because I’m your mate.” He smirks, devastatingly. “You told me as much when you mauled me.”

“Maybe.” She wants to rut against him so, so much. She wants friction for her aching cunt. “Or maybe I was just horny.”

“Don’t lie.” He conjures a pair of black gloves from thin air, slips them over his long fingers. “Omegas shouldn’t lie to their Alphas.”

“What?” She blinks.

“I said, _Omegas shouldn’t lie to their Alphas._ ” He trails a glove-clad finger over the side of her face. “It’s not right. It’s not natural.”

Hermione stares at him for a beat, two beats, three. “ _I’m_ the Alpha in this relationship,” she says on beat four. “Not you.”

He presses his lips together. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, but it is.” A tiny smirk tugs on the corner of her lips. “It’s completely possible.”

“But I read that Alphas are almost _always_ expressed in the masculine body. That it requires a masculine energy—”

“Well I literally have the Greek letter for ‘Alpha’ on my lower back, silly,” Hermione counters, amused. “Who _are_ you?”

He glares at her. “Prove it.”

“Hello, Prove It. My name is Hermione.”

He clenches his legs around hers. _He’s trying to cause me pain_ , Hermione thinks vaguely, her cunt aching and needing him inside her _now_ , more than ever.

“Show me,” he hisses. “Show me the mark.”

“If you want me to show you, you’re going to have to unbind me.”

“I can’t risk that.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second, and Hermione sighs at how plump and red it becomes.

“Has anybody ever told you how beautiful you are?” she hears herself asking, her voice reverent.

He smirks and grabs her waist, flipping her bodily onto her stomach, shoving her blanket to the side. “I hear it all the time.”

“From whom?” Jealousy, that green-eyed monster, roars within her, makes her hot and angry and needy. Her mind flashes to that dark-haired bitch, the one who’d sent her flying against the wall, who’d bent over him as she passed out…

He doesn’t answer her, choosing to unzip her skirt and tug it down her waist. Hermione shivers as she feels him pull her knickers down, too, exposing the mounds of her butt to the cool night air.

The sound of clothing as it hits the floor. Hermione whimpers at the feel of his gloved fingers on her Alpha mark.

“It’s small,” he murmurs. “I can’t see it well.”

She wants to thrust her butt into the air for his inspection. She wants him to see, to _smell_ the scent of her glistening arousal, the slickness coating the fat folds of her pussy.

“Lean in,” she whines. “Come on.”

He pinches her butt. She sighs—it’s nice. It’s even nicer when he pulls her legs apart and pushes her up onto her knees.

It’s gratifying when he does lean into her, close enough that she can feel his hot breath ghost over the skin of her lower back _._ She can feel his nose, also, trail over the base of her spine, down between her butt cheeks, inching lower, toward her wet core.

“H-Have you ever done this before?” she asks. She can’t shake the image of that _girl_ from her mind, the one that had called her a slut and had _dared_ to touch her Omega. _Her_ property.

“Never,” he whispers, his mouth moving against her pussy lips.

Hermione mewls. “Really?”

“I find sex unsanitary and unclean.”

“And yet…” Hermione moans at the feel of his tongue tentatively licking at her dripping wet slit. “And yet _…_ oh, _baby…”_

“I can’t help myself,” he growls. “You smell _so_ good, and you _taste even better.”_

She groans, pleased. “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer, choosing to nose at her pussy, to lave at her juices.

“Please tell me,” Hermione pants. “What should I call you?”

He pulls himself away from her; the loss of his tongue on her cunt has Hermione cry out, feeling empty.

But he doesn’t wander far. His mouth finds its way back up her spine, pressing sloppy kisses onto her skin. He shoves her shirt upward, nuzzling and nipping at the tender flesh of her back.

“I can’t stop,” he pants. “I can’t stop. I can’t.”

“Turn me over,” Hermione commands. “Please. Turn me over, and let me kiss you.”

Oh, her good boy, her sweet boy—he does as he’s told, flipping her roughly onto her back. She’s startled by the snarl on his face, feral and unhinged. She can see a vein pulse at his neck, and she wants to _lick_ it. To bite him _open_.

“Come here,” she orders.

“I don’t know what this power is that you have over me—” He props himself up above her, on his elbows. “—But I _hate it.”_

“Be quiet.” She licks her lips. “Kiss me.”

“No,” he says, even as he lowers his head toward hers.

“Yes.”

“ _No.”_

Their lips brush: it is electric. Hermione can feel every cell in her body reverberate with pleasure, at the _rightness_ of this feeling. Of his plush lips pressed to hers, moving tentatively, uncertainly. She wonders if this is his first kiss, and the feeling of possession _swells_ within her, floods her with just one thought—

_Mine, mine, mine, mine…_

She parts the seam of his lips, tastes her own juices on his tongue; she captures his groan in her mouth and wishes desperately to run her hands through his hair, down his back, over his magnificent, firm ass.

“Unbind me,” she commands him, and he manages to shake his head.

“No. I _won’t_.”

“Yes. You _will_.”

He kisses her again, hungry and wet. Their tongues battle sloppily for dominance. His cheeks are flushed when he pulls away.

“I hate this,” he growls.

“You love it.” Her eyes narrow.

They glare at each other for a moment, before his lips find hers again, and he’s back to kissing her, unable to stay away. She bites down on his lower lip, and he ruts his very hard erection against her navel—

“ _Fuck_ , please unbind me,” she moans. “Please. _Please_. I want to _fuck_ you, let me fuck you.”

He tries to fight her, her sweet, strong Omega. He tries desperately to fight his biology, her effect on him. He’s trembling from the effort of staying his wand hand, his eyes dilated almost entirely black.

“Let go,” she urges. “Let go, and impale me on your thick, beautiful cock.”

He _roars_ and yanks himself away from her lips, her mouth, her face. “You want me to unbind you?” he asks, whipping his wand out. “Fine. I’ll unbind you, you _whore_.” And he does exactly that—freeing Hermione from the confines of his curse.

Only, he doesn’t give her a chance to move; he tangles one gloved hand into her hair and jerks her upward, into a sitting position. He forces her head down toward the bulge at the front of his pants.

“Now suck my cock,” he snarls. “I know you want to, whore. You’ve been dying to suck me, haven’t you? To choke on my dick, to have me cum down your throat—”

“Is this how you talk to your Alpha?” she breathes, though she’s salivating at the thought of taking him into her mouth. Yes, yes, she wants to do it. She wants his big dick in her mouth…

But, on principle, she can’t let him talk to her this way.

She must punish him. She glares up at him.

“Is this how you talk to your master?” she asks.

“You’re not my master,” he spits, pulling on the zipper of his fly, tugging his pants and underwear down past his erection. His cock springs free from the confines of his clothing, long and proud and as pretty as the rest of him. “Now be a good girl, and open your mouth.” He shuffles forward until the head of his dick is pressed against her lips.

“Open up, Hermione. I know you want to.”

He’s not wrong, and she wants to let him in, oh does she _want to._ She leans back slightly.

“Funny. I’m not in the mood anymore,” she grunts.

“No?” He thrusts forward, the pink head of his beautiful dick sliding against her cheek, streaking her face with pre-cum. “What happened to wanting to fuck me, huh? What happened to ‘ _please_ , let me _fuck_ you.’”

Her nostrils flare at his taunting, at the delicious way he says _fuck_ , and he’s not wrong—she wants him, she _wants him_ , but she has to _punish_ him, she has to show him who’s in control—

“Alright.” With not a warning, she grips the base of his cock and darts her tongue out to lick him from shaft to head, then back down again, lingering, swirling her tongue on the slight swell of the knot above his balls: definitive _proof_ that he’s _hers_ to suck, _hers_ to fuck, forever.

He whines above her, his gloved hands fisting in her hair. “Yes… _yes…”_

She spits on the head of his cock and then takes him into her mouth. His pre-cum is salty-sweet, absolutely delectable. She relaxes her throat and swallows him whole.

“ _Fuck…”_ He closes his pretty eyes, his thick, black eyelashes fluttering. “Take me deeper.”

She physically can’t, not anymore. The urge to gag builds each time his cock hits the back of her throat as she bobs up, then down. But she takes it all, she endures it all, _enjoys_ it all, the sweet feel of his cock in her mouth, against her tongue, if only to make him—

“ _Uhhhhhhhnnn_ …” She has him cumming in no time, his knot swelling to its full size, so large he must pull partially out of her mouth.

And as promised, he cums down her throat.

Tears prickle at the corner of Hermione’s eyes as he shoots rope after rope of cum down her throat. She swallows one mouthful, two, before pulling away, choking and spluttering.

“Gods, oh my gods…” he moans, his head bowed, his knot swollen, his cock spewing hot cum still. Hermione watches him shake with the effort to remain kneeling over her, his dick spurting seed continuously, his cum landing _everywhere_ : in her hair, on the front of her shirt. It’s an _unbearably_ erotic sight; she reaches for the sleeves of his robes and pulls him into her arms, back down onto the bed. He slumps docilely against her, moaning into the side of her neck, shuddering and cumming still.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” she mutters, her lips against the shell of his ear. One of her hands massages the back of his neck.

He grits his teeth. “It’s never _this_ much. I never…c-cum this much.”

Hermione smiles. “Your knot swelled for me. I saw it.”

He judders and ruts against her bare leg, cum pooling at the apex of her thighs. “I’m…n-not sure I like this very much.”

Hermione reaches between them and coats her fingertips with his seed. She smears some onto her lips, then kisses his mouth.

He makes a face. “That’s foul.”

She grins and licks her lips. “Not to me.”

They kiss. He shudders and writhes in her arms, gasping and needy up until the moment he spurts his final rivulet of cum onto her naked skin.

Then, exhausted, he closes his eyes and relaxes on top of her. Hermione strokes the back of his neck as he dozes off.

Her darling Omega. Her poor baby. She’s overcome with such affection for this veritable stranger, whom she doesn’t know at all; with whom she’s acted _completely_ depraved, yet again.

And she doesn’t even know his name. How funny.

Nuzzling his cheek, she’s also reminded that she’s never felt more horny and unsatisfied in her _life_ , what with the weight of his body atop her, with the feel of his steady breathing against her chest. She needs to, she _has to cum_ if she’s to remain sane and okay.

The hand not stroking his neck slips between him and her body. She would prefer to climax with his cock buried to the hilt within her, but her fingers will have to do for now.

She breathes in his scent as she rubs her clit. She gazes at the perfect profile of his face, the straight line of his nose, the slight curl of his eyelashes, those lips—it takes less than thirty seconds for her to tense beneath him, her back arching and pushing her breasts up against him, her toes curling; to achieve delicious, blissed-out orgasm.

Then she, too, dozes off to sleep.

 

 

 

And when she wakes, he’s not there.

But Albus Dumbledore is, standing over her bed with a grim expression on his face.

Hermione grips her blankets, grateful her Omega (or somebody, _whoever)_ had pulled them back over her bare legs, still sticky with cum.

“P-Professor,” she stutters. “I can explain.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t lying about this being a smutfic…like, this is legit just porn. Lawl. ;) Also, check muh sexy playlist [ here. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/eevahnya/playlist/3deJwi15TUw01ZnW7c2Fmd?si=Rc4Uc5JGSimgF3dMvhYqww)
> 
> Thanks a gazillion for reading and reviewing!!!!!


	3. the complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot??? Is lavish advancing plot?!? In a smutfic??!! (Yes. Yes, she is.) 
> 
> Enjoy.

 

Sitting in Dumbledore’s office, she tells him everything. The being thrown back into the past, the unconscious mauling of her Omega.

Even her depraved tryst from the night before.

She figures the less secrets she keeps the better her chances at enlisting Dumbledore’s help escaping this timeline.

And she also figures that he’s been teaching long enough to have stumbled upon more than his fair share of horny teenaged ruts.

To his credit, he really is unfazed by all of it.

“It’s just rather complicated, isn’t it?” he says unhelpfully, plucking a lemon drop from the glass candy bowl on his desk. “Sweet?” he offers.

Hermione shakes her head. She’s all cleaned up now—she’d showered and wiped herself of her Omega’s sticky load. And his cum really had been _everywhere,_ all over her thighs, her bosom, her hair.

She shivers, remembering his endless orgasm from the night before. His inability to stop cumming, ropes of his semen coating her, marking her.

All of it because of her, _for_ her…

“Your best option now is to wait it out, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore interrupts, clearing his throat. “Whoever sent you here will probably send you back.”

Hermione blushes. She unclenches her thighs. “Yes, I think so.”

“You’re still quite young, so passing as a seventh year shouldn’t be a problem.”

Hermione catches her reflection in one of the many silver instruments scattered across Dumbledore’s desk. True, her face hasn’t lost the rounded lines of youth. Her skin is flushed and clear. Her lips full, her forehead unwrinkled.

“Classes shouldn’t be a problem either, given you’ve passed all of them before.”

“I received an Outstanding on every single one of my N.E.W.T.s, actually."

“And how many N.E.W.T.s was that?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, dear.” Dumbledore beams. “How nice to meet a fellow brainiac.”

Hermione shrugs. “I’ve always liked to learn.”

“Shall we sort you into Ravenclaw, then?” he asks, blue eyes twinkling.

“Whatever house would be most inconspicuous.”

“Well, here’s another consideration: do you wish to be sorted into Mr. Riddle’s house? Given your condition, you may wish to be near him.”

Hermione’s mouth goes dry. Did he just say—? “I’m sorry, Professor. Did you just say ‘Riddle’?”

“Yes.” He nods. “As in ‘Tom Riddle.’ Your Omega. Or however you referred to him.”

Hermione’s stomach drops. She feels dizzy, so _dizzy_ all of a sudden that she might pass out.

“Oh my gods…” she murmurs, swaying in her seat. _“No, no, no—!”_

Dumbledore stands and places a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Is something the matter, Miss Granger?”

“Yes,” she manages to say through her hyperventilating. _Breathe in, Hermione, breathe out._ “Tom Riddle—it can’t— _he_ can’t—”

Dumbledore’s voice is quiet. “I assume that name means something to your future?”

She nods and squeezes her eyes shut. Breathes deeply, in and out. In and out.

In.

Out.

But she can’t stop thinking about it, about how she had given Lord Voldemort a blowjob last night. _She_ , Hermione Jean Granger, blowing a young, gorgeous and virile version of Lord Voldemort, but _Lord Voldemort_ all the same.

She had swallowed his cum, even. Two eager mouthfuls, and then she’d kissed him with his hot seed on her lips, and then she’d fingered herself to orgasm while he dozed on top of her…

The walls of her cunt clench, have her squirming in her chair, and _fuck_ , she should _not_ be turned on right now. She should be _disgusted_ , not _craving_ him, his gray eyes framed by such thick, black lashes; his wet and tentative tongue laving at her pussy lips, sampling her juices; both his hands in her hair, and fuck _, fuck,“Fuck!”_ she yells.

Dumbledore is very concerned. “Not Slytherin, then.”

“No, not Slytherin,” she exhales. “ _Please_. I don’t want to—I _can’t_ be near him, _at all.”_

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she snaps. “I am one hundred and ten percent certain.” Although her body is crying out already, her heart _squeezing_ at the thought of losing him, of never tasting his spend again, of never being split by his thick, beautiful cock, as he is supposed to do to her, _for_ her, _only_ her—

“Then Ravenclaw would be best, I think. Their seventh year class is quite small, and each and every one of them will be too focused on their N.E.W.T.s to indulge in gossip and pettiness.”

Hermione chews hard on the inside of her lip, tasting blood. “Gossip?” she asks. “Pettiness?”

Dumbledore frowns. “I’m afraid the story of your attack on the Head Boy has spread throughout the school. And there’s been talk about retribution by some of Mr. Riddle’s more… _devoted_ classmates.”

Hermione can’t imagine a worse possible timeline for her to be stuck in. “When you say ‘story of my attack,’ do you mean even the—the _sexual_ part of it?”

“Mr. Riddle did not want that shared, but it was, regardless.”

Great. Just great. Now everybody knows her as the class whore, the class slut…she’s an outcast without having met a single student other than Tom Riddle. 

_Tom Motherfucking Riddle._

Her Omega. Her mate. Her _soulmate_ , because they are marked for each other. Merlin, they are meant to breed with one another.

They are meant to have children.

“This can’t be happening,” she blurts. “I can’t be in any classes with him. I _really_ can’t.”

“I’m afraid there will be some overlap in your schedules—”

“How many N.E.W.T.s is he taking?” She stands up, paces the office. “I’ll take all the ones he’s not.”

“Unfortunately, he’s taking quite a few. Eight, to be specific.”

“How’s that even possible?” Hermione groans. “That’s _a lot_ of classes.”

“He’s very bright, Mr. Riddle is.” Dumbledore’s mouth presses into a thin line. “But he isn’t taking Muggle Studies. That much is certain.”

“I’ll take that.” Hermione stops in front of a small, square mirror hanging on the wall. Her brown eyes glisten with unshed tears of frustration, and with her hair still wet from her bath, clinging in thick clumps to her cheek, she looks crazed.

She shoves a wet lock of hair from her forehead. “What else is he not taking?”

“Care of Magical Creatures. Divination.”

She forces herself to say, “I’ll take those too.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers, looks sharply at her over the top of his glasses. “Are you sure, Miss Granger? Did you study those subjects in your time?”

“No,” Hermione must admit. “I mean it’s been a while. But how hard can they be? And honestly, I’d rather labor through them than—than be in classes with _him.”_

“You’ll be in Ravenclaw house. It will be very odd if you struggle through these classes,” Dumbledore says frankly.

“Then put me into Hufflepuff!” she shouts. “I just—I _can’t_ be near Tom Riddle. Not if I can help it.”

“I understand, Miss Granger, but please think this through rationally. Surely you also realize that your N.E.W.T. subjects and courses must collectively make sense. A mishmash of random subjects does not a career make.”

“But I don’t intend to stay here long enough to make a career for myself.” Hermione kneads the bridge of her nose. Her head is starting to hurt again, but this time it has nothing to do with her injury. “I just need to _go home.”_

“Very well. Then might I suggest adding at least two more courses to your schedule?”

“Which ones?”

“One of them is mine. Transfiguration.” Dumbledore puts another lemon drop into his mouth. “That way I can keep an eye on you, Miss Granger. I’m worried.”

She nods weakly, defeated. There’s a heaviness in her stomach, and she feels the weight of the world on her shoulders. Why must life do her dirty, _so dirty,_ at every turn? Hasn’t she suffered enough?

“And the other class?” she asks. “What else should I take?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts.” Dumbledore raises an eyebrow knowingly.

Tom Riddle’s handsome face flashes across her mind.

And she hates him, she hates him, she _hates_ him so much: his effect on her body, his prettiness, the delicateness of his features, how _intelligent_ and _brilliant_ and _evil_ he is, even at seventeen years old.

And _gods_ , she’s robbing the cradle, isn’t she? She’s turning twenty-one in three weeks.

(Which is more reason to stay away.)

Her heart constricts. Sweetly, painfully.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts is a good idea,” she says. “I’ll be needing it.” A lot.

 

 

 

In the end, they decide to put her into Ravenclaw, as originally planned. Dumbledore takes his class-free morning and his lunch break off to accompany her to Hogsmeade, so that she may stock up on textbooks, supplies, and uniforms.

This Hogsmeade Village is not too different from the one in her time. The shops are a little bit newer, Hermione supposes; the windows cleaner, the stones paving the streets more even.

At Gladrags, being fitted for robes that bear the Ravenclaw house sigil, she remembers being sixteen and wandering into the store with Harry and Ron to buy a birthday gift for Dobby. They had giggled over wildly patterned socks then, in a moment of levity amid darkness. Joy amid a war.

A war initiated and perpetuated by _her_ Omega. Her soulmate.

Like, sure, he’s a teenaged boy now, but he’s destined for chaos.

And he’s destined to father her children, if the texts on Alpha and Omega relationships are to be believed, and _ugh,_ _ack_ , it’s so crazy and ridiculous to think about that Hermione forces herself not to think about it at all.

It’s hard, though, not to think about him when they pass Ollivander’s, because he still has her wand, and she’d rather die than ask for it back now.

She points at the store and asks Dumbledore, “Can we go inside?”

“Do you not have a wand?” he asks, surprised.

“Not at the moment.”

They enter, this outcropping of Ollivander’s store just as small and, impossibly, twice as cramped as its brother in Diagon Alley. Hermione nods awkwardly at the shopkeeper, a reed-thin, gray-haired man, and spends the next forty minutes or so flicking various sticks of wood around. And to no avail. None of them _choose_ her the way her actual wand did.

She does not feel complete holding any one of them.

And it is frustrating, but she can’t go back to Hogwarts wandless and unprotected. So she reluctantly buys the last one she picks up, an eleven-inch Alder wood wand with a unicorn hair core.

She spends the rest of the afternoon and evening holed up in the Ravenclaw dormitory, sketching out her backstory: details of a past life she’s never lived.

She settles on being a refugee from the War raging on the continent, one with two fronts—one Muggle, one magical. Both devastating. She had been a student at Beauxbatons, she decides, but she had to withdraw from school when her family was attacked by Grindelwald’s forces.

She also decides that they are all dead now. That is easiest to explain. And, in a way, her family really _is_ dead to her in this time period.

She is alone.

 

 

 

But not for too long. Not literally anyway.

Her roommates return to the dorm after dinner. She has three of them, and like Dumbledore had said, they really are more interested in studying than prying into her life.

“I don’t care that you might be a sexual predator, or that you’re a refugee from the war,” Noelle de Montmorency, the tall, blonde great-granddaughter of the inventor of Amortentia announces when they meet. “We have a strict ‘no noise after 10 PM’ rule, because ten to midnight is my prime study time.”

“Oh, don’t listen to her, Hermione.” Judith Corner grins. She is petite and brunette, with round, blue eyes that dominate her face. “Stress-crying _is_ allowed.”

“And encouraged!” Hadley Wentworth calls from the bathroom. She is red-haired and Amazonian. “I find crying to be a harmless, safe, and free way of relieving tension.”

“I’m not much of a cryer,” Hermione lies, untucking the royal blue cover from her bed. “But I do like to study.”

“I hardly think you’ll need to study given your courseload.” Noelle sniffs. “How’d you settle on divination anyway? Everybody knows it’s a shit subject.”

Hermione doesn’t want to say that she agrees. “There may be a Seer or two in my family.”

“Then why Muggle Studies?” Hadley asks, wandering into the room with her toothbrush in hand, voice garbled by toothpaste. “I mean—don’t get me wrong—I’m not prejudiced—I mean, _I’m_ a Muggleborn myself—”

“It’s interesting,” Hermione chirps. “That’s why.”

“Why not potions and charms and arithmancy?” Judith asks. “They are my favorites.”

“I passed out of them at Beauxbatons.” Hermione slips under her duvet. She pulls her sheets up to her neck. “I wanted to learn…other things.”

The girls don’t press much further, the conversation devolving into an argument about subjects they could not live without, that they would never give up, not for a million galleons. Hermione is allowed to pass her first night as a seventh year student (again) in relative peace.

Though she does chug the sleeping potion Madame Iver, the school healer, had packed for her.To keep her mind off the reason why she’s here in the first place.

The reason why she’s completely and totally fucked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be updating again very soon, my dears. I just couldn’t squeeze everything I wanted to write into one chapter, so…I’ve written multiple chapters all at once. Again, they're coming very soon. :’) 
> 
> Thanks for your hilarious reviews!!!


	4. the contention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you totally were lying about how soon you could update. BUT TO BE FAIR, life's been crazy busy. So please enjoy this extra long chapter.

 

The next morning, she realizes that Dumbledore had not been exaggerating about the gossip and the pettiness. Not one bit.

On her way to breakfast, students from all houses whisper loudly on all sides, “Is that Hermione de Grainville?” (She adds the “de” to sound more continental, more French.)

“You mean the one who attacked Tom?”

“I hear she’s a prostitute.”

“She’s loose, to say the least. If you know what I mean.”

She hears “whore” and “slut” thrown around as well. In fact, she hears the whole gamut of misogynistic insults meant to vilify women. 

She blames some of the vitriol on the conservative social mores of the 1940s, but still. Words _hurt_ , and she’s never been great at keeping her heart off her sleeve.

At breakfast, she clangs a few plates and forks around. She cuts into her waffles rather viciously. Her roommates are not early risers, so Hermione must sit alone, the other Ravenclaws either purposefully avoiding eye contact with her or too busy arguing over the day’s headlines to bother.

It’s fine, really, Hermione thinks. It’s best to keep everyone at arm’s length. She scoops melon balls onto her plate and thanks the gods she has at least one ally in Dumbledore. The situation could be worse.

She could, for instance, be squeezing her thighs together at the mere scent of her Omega, who’d just walked in and taken a seat next to three smirking, dark-haired boys and one bored-looking blonde one.

She could, for instance, be feeling every cell in her body reverberate, her fingers tingle at his mere presence. 

The air could, for instance, be growing thick and heavy, as if charged with electricity.

Hermione glares hard at her plate. Butterflies have chased away her appetite to eat. _Butterflies_ , for gods’ sake.

She pours herself a cup of black coffee and gulps it down. The heat of the liquid scorches her throat, reminds her that’s she’s capable of feeling things that are _not_ desire.

She resolves then and there to break this stupid connection off. Surely, there’s a way. _Surely_ , there’s literature in the library about how to end their bond. Surely _someone_ in all of history has severed a link like this before.

It’s not natural. It’s not _healthy_.

Hermione sneaks another glance at Tom Riddle from across the hall.

He looks impeccable this morning, every part of his uniform on straight and fitted, his collar crisp, his cloak unwrinkled, his thick black hair parted neatly. A single, curling lock of hair falls over his forehead, passes over one eyebrow; he brushes it away a few times. On the fourth time, a blonde girl sitting down the Slytherin table calls out, “ _Toooom_ , would you like one of my Bobby pins?”

He smiles prettily at her, and he calls back, “No, thank you, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” which is a perfectly benign thing to say. But it makes the girl giggle and blush, and Hermione absolutely _crushes_ the blackberries she’d just plucked from the fruit bowl. Her hands are stained red. She licks the juice from her palm.

Tom Riddle eats about as much as any other seventeen year old boy eats (a lot). He chews with his mouth closed and does not talk with his mouth full. The default expression on his face is mild boredom. He laughs occasionally, at the jokes his gang of “friends” make—which is so…so human and teenaged boy-like…

He’s charming when students of other houses approach him for help. When two Hufflepuff first years amble up to him and tap him on his shoulder, he flashes them a smile that is shockingly warm, free from mockery or condescension. If he’s annoyed that his breakfast has been interrupted, he doesn’t let on.

If he realizes she’s in the hall right now, he doesn’t let on.

If he can _feel_ her the way she can feel _him_ right now, he doesn’t let on.

He does not look at her once.

 

 

 

Her first class of the day is Care of Magical Creatures, taught by one round and gregarious Professor Kettleburn. She had always regretted missing him as a professor in the future, so his class feels like a treat.

It is comprised mostly of Hufflepuffs, two Gryffindors, and two other Ravenclaws. One of them is Hadley. The other is a tall blonde boy with high cheekbones, who looks strikingly like Noelle. Hermione is paired with him on the assignment of the day: massaging pregnant Puffskeins to prepare them for birth.

“I’m Gaspard de Montmorency.” The blonde boy holds out his hand.

She shakes it. “Hermione de Grainville. You must be Noelle’s brother.”

“Twin brother.” He smiles, his blue, almond-shaped eyes concealed partially by round glasses.

She is reminded of Harry. Her stomach twists; something like sadness washes over her.“You two look very much alike.”

“I hear that a lot.” He laughs. “And I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, not unkindly. “I’m not sure what to believe.”

“It’s all hogwash.” Hermione shakes her head. She sets a gentle hand on the puffskein lying in the box before them.

 _Here’s your chance to sell your side of the story,_ she thinks. _With confidence._

“I mean…it’s true I _did_ go after the Head Boy…but not inappropriately! I just—the war’s been really hard. Everywhere I go, I’m reminded of—horrible things—he looked like someone I’ve met—someone who’s _hurt_ me…” She turns away from Gaspard. She thinks of things that might conjure up tears: the final fight she had with Ron, which had resulted in their break-up. That time she had Obliviated her own parents.

The possibility she might never see them again.

A single tear rolls down her cheek. 

She feels a hand on her arm. “Hermione, I get it. There’s no need to explain.” Gaspard’s face is solemn. “Noelle and I have family still in France. It’s been scary not knowing when we’ll hear from them next.”

Hermione nods. “My parents…I _miss_ them.”

Professor Kettleburn chooses that moment to sweep by; he clears his throat loudly behind them, startling them both. “Miss de Grainville. I certainly appreciate the difficulties you’ve gone through, but please bear in mind the sensitive, needy womb of a pregnant puffskein. Don’t stop massaging them just because you need to cry! They’re due any minute now!”

The _sensitive, needy womb_ of a puffskein. Hermione sighs and starts to stroke the ball of fluff before her.

She can relate.

 

 

 

Her second class is Muggle Studies. To her delight, she’s joined by Gaspard again, who she gets the feeling will become another much needed ally in this time.

He chats with her all the way back up to the castle. He asks her what she wants to do after school. She expresses a vague desire to work in government; he shares his ambition to become a healer, his face lighting up at the prospect of working at St. Mungo’s or, more importantly, on the front lines of the War. She nods appreciatively. The conversation morphs into her peppering him with questions about his famous and ingenious great-grandmother, Laverne de Montmorency. They end up debating the ideal composition of all three known forms of Amortentia.

In Muggle Studies, she’s introduced to his best friend, Adrian Fronsac, another Ravenclaw seventh year. Adrian is tall, tan, and broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline, intense brown eyes, and an even more intense focus on schoolwork.

“He reckons he’s smarter than Tom Riddle,” Gaspard whispers to Hermione in the middle of the lecture. “And better-looking, too.”

Hermione sneaks a glance at Adrian, who’s taking notes diligently; his handwriting is neat and clean. “I believe it,” she says spitefully.

She does have to wonder though why all these boys are so handsome. Like, _how_ are they so handsome? Every single one she’s met thus far.

There must be something in the water.

…Aaaaand along that line of thinking, the low-simmering lust that had occupied the back of her mind, the very core of her, begins to boil. Again. Her womb _aches_ to be filled, ugh…

She tries desperately to pay attention to Professor Winnfrey’s spiel on nuclear weaponry, but her mind keeps going back to Tom Riddle.

To _Lord Voldemort,_ she reminds herself. Blood purist. Mass murderer.

She even tries to divert the hot, hot feeling of need to Adrian, to imagine how his hard and masculine body must look naked, how it might feel running her hands down his broad back…

But her mind goes back to how Riddle had shaken and rocked in her arms as he came, how he’d buried that perfect nose into her neck as she held him at his most vulnerable…

No, no, no, no, _no, Hermione, stop._

Stop it.

She tells herself to cool it, _please_ , girl.

Tom Riddle is her mortal enemy—has been for most of living memory. He is as dangerous as the nuclear explosions Professor Winnfrey is going on about, if not more so.

(And _ugh,_ twice as hot).

 

 

 

She spends her lunch hour in the library, searching for books on time travel. The nagging feeling that no mysterious savior will send her back home has her moving quickly, pulling this and that book off the shelves.

There’s a growing chance that if she does want to go home she’ll have to figure it out on her own.

She bumps into Hadley and Judith sitting by the Restricted Section; they’re joined by a Slytherin girl, blonde, petite, and mousy-haired. They’ve sneaked sandwiches into the library underneath their cloaks. They sit cross-legged on the floor and chew quietly, textbooks open on their laps.

“Would you like one?” Judith offers up a sandwich.

Hermione accepts it gladly. “Do you eat in the library every day?”

“Most days.” Hadley nods. “Noelle joins us when she doesn’t have Quidditch practice.”

“I see.”

“This is Darcy, by the way.” Hadley elbows the small Slytherin girl in the side. “She’s one of the good ones.”

The mousy-haired girl smiles shyly at Hermione. She has a pale, plain face that is not rendered completely boring by brown eyes that tilt upward at the ends. “Darcy Tanith. Nice to meet you, Hermione.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” They shake hands. Darcy Tanith’s hands are very small and rather bony.

“I’m sorry—are you a seventh year?” Hermione asks.

“Second, actually.” Her voice is soft.“I’ve never been good at making friends. But Judith and Hadley were kind enough to absorb me into their group—”

“You spend all your time in the library, like us. How could we not?” Hadley grins. “Plus, you’re wicked smart for a second year. And for a Slytherin.”

“I don’t believe Ravenclaws have a monopoly on intelligence.” Darcy frowns. “I mean, Tom Riddle is the smartest student in school, and _he’s_ a Slytherin.”

“Oh, bugger off.” Hadley laughs. “It’s always, _Tom_ this, _Tom_ that with you Slytherins! It’s like you worship him or something.”

Darcy huffs. “He’s super bright, _and_ he’s Head Boy. I admire him.”

“Right. Of course you do.” Hadley wriggles her eyebrows up and down.

Hermione sets her armful of books onto the floor rather loudly. 

“What have you got there?” Judith asks.

“Oh, just a bit of light reading.” Hermione unwraps her sandwich, plops herself onto the floor.

“Is there much to read about for divination?” Judith giggles.

“No.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “It’s, um, for a side project I’m working on.”

“A side project? In our N.E.W.T. year?” Hadley grabs the top book off Hermione’s pile. “How will you have time? Who’s your mentoring professor?”

“It’s an informal project. One I’m conducting for myself.” Hermione clears her throat. “It’s on time travel. I figured I’d take advantage of the fact that I’m still in school to, you know, use the resources still available to me. To learn about time travel and all its…glory.”

“I’m surprised you’ve found that many texts referencing it.” Judith’s wide eyes widen impossibly further. “It’s been attempted through the years, but what with Eloise Mintumble and what happened to her…”

Hadley shudders. “Gods, that was awful to read about. The way it was reported—how she’d aged five centuries by the time she got back—”

“I don’t intend to make that mistake,” Hermione says. “I mean, it’s not like I’m _doing_ it myself. I’m just reading about it. No harm, no foul.”

“Sure, you may say that now, but when push comes to shove and you have the opportunity to freaking _time-travel_ yourself, you’ll take it.” Hadley smiles. “I know you will.”

“And how do you know that?” Hermione asks.

“Because you’re a Ravenclaw, like the rest of us.” Hadley laughs. “Like, come on. I would _totally_ go back in time if I could.”

“Definitely,” Judith agrees. “There’ve been a couple of essays I’ve been meaning to rewrite—”

“You have the chance to turn back time, and you’d do it to rewrite a paper?” Hadley asks, disbelieving. “That is so uncreative!”

“Fine, then what would you do?” Judith asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe, like, stop Grindelwald from being born? Do something _actually_ productive for mankind?”

“That’s exactly how you screw up the timeline!” Judith insists. “That’s the sort of thing you _aren’t_ _supposed to do!”_

“Well, it’s not like our timeline now is all that great,” Hadley says, hotly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

Hermione would agree. “Yes. I mean. I’m only here because of the War…”

Hadley gasps, pressing a hand over her mouth. “Oh my gods. I’m so—I’ve been so insensitive. I’m sorry, Hermione! I must sound like an asshole.”

Hermione looks at the redhead and smiles slightly. “Don’t worry about it. You are forgiven.”

Judith clucks her tongue. “This happens all the time, Hermione. Noelle and Hadley are two peas in a pod. They have the tendency to run their mouths.”

“Like you don’t?” Hadley smacks the brunette on her arm.

“I have tact. Lots of it!”

“You have an innocent face. That’s all there is to it.”

Hermione stays silent as the two Ravenclaw girls bicker.

Darcy has a sullen look on her face. She picks at her sandwich, pulls out a pickle, and rolls it up in a napkin.

“How are you liking your studies?” Hermione asks, attempting what she hopes is a kind smile.

“Well enough.” Darcy removes another pickle from her sandwich. “Did you know that Tom Riddle received an Outstanding on every one of his O.W.L.s? Only one other student in his year did that well. Him and Adrian Fronsac, I believe it was.” Darcy wrinkles her nose. “But Adrian Fronsac’s a _bore—”_

Hermione sighs. She _really_ has to go home. This is going to be a _long_ year.

 

 

 

Her last class of the day is Transfiguration, also attended by Hadley and Judith. There is slightly less whispering as she traverses the hallways with the girls.

Protection in groups and all that.

They join Noelle, who’s already seated near the front of the classroom.

“How was Quidditch?” Hermione asks politely. She darts her gaze about the room; no sign of Riddle yet.

“We’re prepping for tryouts,” Noelle says, tying her long, golden hair back into a ponytail. “You don’t happen to play, do you?”

“I’m rubbish at flying,” Hermione confesses, flipping open her textbook. She watches as Dumbledore sweeps into the classroom. He winks at the girls.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” He folds his hands together. “Early, as per usual.”

“We wouldn’t dare miss a second of your lecture.” Noelle bats her eyelashes at Dumbledore.

Hermione chokes back a laugh.

“Not one second.” Judith curls a lock of brown hair around her finger.

Hadley shakes her head. “You two are _so_ transparent. It’s unbelievable.”

“Shut up, Hadley.” Noelle raises her wand and taps it twice against her textbook. It morphs into a mug, the words _“World’s Greatest Professor”_ scribbled onto it.

“For you, Professor.” Noelle levitates it toward Dumbledore.

He claps his hands together, amused. “Well done! Ten points to Ravenclaw.” Dumbledore smiles. “But how are you supposed to go through today’s lessons without a book? Ten points _back_ from Ravenclaw for your lack of foresight, Miss de Montmorency.” He floats the mug back to her.

Noelle blushes, and Hermione can’t help laughing out loud.

Dumbledore turns away, words beginning to write themselves on the chalkboard. Noelle morphs the mug back into a book.

Judith and Hermione continue to chuckle—when they hear over their shoulders, “Gee, I wonder what’s so funny?”

The voice is feminine and sweet and smooth, like honey. Hermione looks over her shoulders with unease; there stands that dark-haired girl, the one who’d stunned her, the one who’d hovered over Tom…

Hermione’s hands clench. The girl takes a seat directly in front of her. She is tall and elegant and beautiful. She has the face of a young Ava Gardner, her hair falling in gleaming, chocolatey brown waves down her back.

Hermione hates her already.

“Forsythia Parkinson,” Noelle whispers into Hermione’s ear, as if reading her mind. “A right bitch.”

“She was the one who spread gossip about your attack,” Judith whispers into Hermione’s other ear. “I’m surprised the rest of her posse isn’t here yet. Watch out for them, okay?”

“Thanks,” Hermione says. “I appreciate the heads up.”

Other students start to trickle into the room, and Hermione begins to realize just how big the class is: there are a good, healthy mix of students from all houses, who occupy almost all the chairs.

Her heart starts to thump noisily, the hatred she feels for the girl sitting in front of her, applying bright red lipstick, trumped by _anticipation:_ for Tom Riddle— _Lord Voldemort’s_ appearance _._ He’s definitely in this class with her. She hopes against hope that he sits far, far away.

But, as luck would have it, when he enters the room a minute before class is due to start, he sits down right next to Forsythia Parkinson—in front of and diagonal from Hermione. Because of course, he does.

Of course.

He flashes Forsythia a brilliant, white smile. “Thank you for saving me a seat,” he says smoothly.

Forsythia straightens in her chair. “You’re welcome, Tom. I know how busy you are on Wednesdays.” She gives him a secret smile and leans to her left so that her elbow brushes against his. He doesn’t move away.

Hermione feels like she might start dry-heaving. Not only is he sitting _in front of her_ , but he also apparently is bosom friends with this bitch.

And now Hermione has to spend an entire class period watching them interact. Watching them _flirt_.

Forsythia Parkinson and Tom Riddle—has he forgotten already that he’s _hers?_ He’s _her_ subordinate; _her_ plaything.

Hers to flirt with, to tease, to work into a lustful, wide-eyed frenzy.

Can’t he feel the charge in the air? It’s _overwhelming_ being this close to him.

Her body is vibrating, her hands literally trembling at the sheer force of her attraction to him. She has to sit on her hands as Dumbledore begins to lecture, so as to stop herself from reaching out and stroking the back of his neck.

 _This is Lord Voldemort,_ she chants in her head. _Lord Voldemort._ An actual murderer. She squints at the black-stone ring on his left hand: proof that he’s killed at least three people in cold blood already, and he’s only seventeen.

Judith seems to notice something off and asks if she’s alright. “Hermione? You look _really_ flushed. Do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?”

Hermione shakes her head resolutely. She forces her eyes from the back of Tom Riddle’s head, onto Dumbledore, speaking animatedly by the chalkboard.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Judith frowns, concerned.

“Yes,” Hermione snaps. “Yes, I’m sure.”

She tries her best to pay attention. Sitting in a Transfiguration class taught by Albus Dumbledore is a privilege, considering his reputation for being one of the best professors to ever grace Hogwarts’ halls. So she ought to pay attention, yes. She ought to be watching him demonstrate conjuring spells.

She ought to be charmed by his producing several wreaths of daisies from thin air. He floats them around the room, sets them atop the heads of a few random students. One Gryffindor boy sneezes loudly at the yellow pollen that’s fallen onto his hair.

The other students laugh. But she doesn’t _._ The proximity to her Omega is too much. She can smell him from where she sits. His musk, his private scent. All of it putting her into a very primal headspace…

Riddle doesn’t look at her once through the lecture. If he can feel her the way she feels him, he doesn’t let on. It’s as if she’s invisible. As if they aren’t bound at all—which has Hermione wondering, maybe what had happened a couple nights ago was all a dream, brought about by her nasty head wound.

Regardless, she watches him out the corner of her eyes. She can’t help herself. He is the very image of a model student, sitting quietly in his seat, taking copious notes. He answers a few of Professor Dumbledore’s questions, but never out of turn; he raises a pale hand each time, the Gaunt family ring gleaming on his ring finger. He is careful not to dominate the conversation.

Each time he does answer a question (and always correctly), Forsythia turns her head to smile at him. He smiles back without fail.

It’s sickening.

When it comes time for the students to conjure flower wreaths of their own, Riddle manages it on his first try.

And wait a second—holy shit. Hermione’s stomach drops at the sight of her wand in his hand. _Her wand_ , vine wood, 10 and 3/4 inches, dragon heartstring—

Riddle uses it to conjure up bright yellow forsythias. They materialize slowly out of nowhere, weaving themselves elegantly into a crown, out the tip of _her wand_.

He then places the forsythia crown, the one produced with _her wand_ , on Forsythia Parkinson’s perfect head. 

Forsythia smiles shyly, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

“You look like a princess,” Riddle tells her. “A queen of the wild woods, smiling sweetly.”

Hermione is wracked with jealousy. Her heart beats painfully in her chest, her fingers flex against her will.

All she wants is for Riddle to _look at her_ , for gods’ sake, _why isn’t he looking at her? Why hasn’t he looked at her_ once?

They are soulmates; they are—they are _meant to be_ , and…and…who _is_ this bitch to him? Are they dating? Are they sleeping together? Had Riddle been lying about being a virgin? An attractive boy like that—there’s no way he is, Hermione thinks, her stomach sinking, her hands gripping her wand so tight, _so tight_ —he’s not an innocent, not those hands and those finely carved lips—

“You look stressed,” Judith mutters next to her.

Hermione jerks out of her angry trance. She glances about the room; no other student has managed a full on flower wreath, but she sees more than a few petals littering their desks.

“I’m fine,” she grunts. She waves her new wand, thinking on that time she and Harry had stood at the Potter family grave, and easily conjures a flower wreath of her own, woven roses so deep and blood red they’re basically purple. The color of fresh bruises.

“Wow,” Judith gasps next to her. “That’s _so_ beautiful.”

Professor Dumbledore walks by, impressed. “Well done, Miss de Grainville. Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

Hermione glares angrily at her crown. Which is suddenly lifted from her desk and placed gently atop her head.

Noelle sits back and admires her handiwork. “You look like a princess,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “A queen of the underworld, brooding dangerously.”

Hadley and Judith burst into wild fits of laughter. Forsythia and Riddle— _at last!—_ turn to look at her.

The rose crown slips down Hermione’s head, sinks from her wild, brown curls onto her brow. She had not thought to strip the flower stems of thorns. The crown cuts her, the sting welcome as she makes eye contact with Riddle for the first time all day.

A single droplet of blood rolls down her forehead, onto her cheek. He regards her coolly, the only indication that he recognizes her at all the way his pupils expand, wide and dark, forcing the gray away from his irises.

She licks at the coppery blood that’s slid into her mouth. Her hands grip the edges of her desk.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Hermione!” Noelle apologizes next to her, attempting to lift the crown off.

“Leave it,” Hermione barks. She starts to breathe heavily; Tom Riddle bites down on his plump bottom lip, his eyes darting quickly to her panting mouth.

“Tom…Tom are you okay?” Forsythia asks next to him. She lays a hand atop his shoulder.

_Mine, mine, mine, mine._

He tears his gaze away from Hermione. “Yes, I’m fine, princess.”

_Mine, mine, mine, mine._

“Good. You were looking quite strangely at that girl. You _know_ how I feel about you looking at other girls—”

Hermione stands abruptly, pushing her chair back, yanking the crown off her head. She vanishes it without using her wand. She heals the cut on her forehead without using her wand.

The class stops to watch her.

“Hermione?” Judith squeaks. “Are you—”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione announces, barely able to hear herself speak over the sound of her heart pounding so loudly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She doesn’t wait for permission to leave, simply storming out of the room then. Her bag and her books zoom out hurriedly after her. So much for being inconspicuous.

But can you blame her?

What’s hers _should be hers._ Untouched and virginal, a perfect package for her alone to unwrap, to ruin, to defile.

But he’s not that.

_You know how I feel when you look at other girls._

The flames of the many torches lining the hallway flicker and die as she stomps past.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me a jealous!Hermione, in all her strength and emotion, so...here she damn is. Lol. Promise we'll also be getting sexy again in the near future. <333


	5. the congregation

 

The Knights of Walpurgis are easy to manage.

Marceau Lestrange. Quentin Avery. Cyprian Rosier.

All three _worship_ Tom Riddle, almost to a manic degree. Like puppies, they follow him around, sit with him at mealtimes, do research on his behalf, terrify those who deserve it, etc. etc.

They even laugh at all of his jokes.

And while Tom figures he’s got a sharp sense of humor, he knows he can’t be _that_ funny all of the time. Which means his Knights are more sycophants than friends, which is fine by him.

Tom Riddle is not interested in friends.

The rest of Slytherin House is just as easy to manage. Slughorn thinks him an angel, the best and brightest student Hogwarts has ever seen, and Abraxas Malfoy and his two best friends have been warming up to him. Forsythia and her girl gang of wealthy purebloods are half in-love already.

 _Yes, yes,_ Tom Riddle thinks, sitting in the stands of the Quidditch pitch, watching the Slytherin team trials and “cheering” on Lestrange and Avery despite them having bought positions on the team.

_Everything is going according to plan._

Forsythia will soon invite him to her family’s All Hallows’ Eve soiree. Malfoy will begrudgingly suggest he spend winter holiday with his family in Switzerland. Rosier will fight Malfoy about it, insisting Tom spend winter holiday with _his_ family in Norway, where “it’ll be safer, given they aren’t fighting a war there.”

“Yes, but my family _owns_ the resort. And Switzerland is neutral in the conflict, or have you forgotten, pigwit?”

The boys will argue, until Avery and Lestrange suggest a getaway, just the three of them, in some dark, freezing place like Greenland, to watch the Northern Lights.

“And wouldn’t you want to see that, Tom?”

Yes, yes.

_Everything is going according to plan._

Save.

Of course.

For the _girl_ sitting in front of him, a few rows down the stands. Her back is straight and tense, her monstrously voluminous hair, the color of syrup over hotcakes, wrangled into a long plait.

She’s sitting with her fellow Ravenclaws, Hadley Wentworth, the leggy redhead, and Judith Corner, the elfin brunette. They’re here to support those arrogant de Montmorency twins, co-captains of the Ravenclaw team. Co-captains who for some reason thought it would be a great idea to hold their team tryouts at the same time as Slytherin house.

Each team occupies one side of the field, though Lestrange has already bludgered three Ravenclaws in the back.

“Marceau can be such a bad sport,” Forsythia sniffs next to him, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“I don’t disagree,” Tom says, annoyed at how possessive the Parkinson girl is. Gods. Can't she keep her hands to herself for one second?

Ah well. He supposes this and a few kisses on the cheek are the price he must pay to be invited to her family’s Halloween soiree. It will be worth it in the end. There will be more than a few high-flyers in attendance…

His eyes dart back to Hermione Jean Granger, his problem of the day. Of the year. Of his life. She is clapping politely at Adrian Fronsac blocking a difficult shot. Hadley leans into her and whispers something that makes her smile. Her teeth are white and straight; he wonders if she’s from a family of consequence.

Tom supposes he should consider himself lucky she’s not a troll, this Hermione—she’s very pretty, frankly, with her clear skin and symmetrical features. She also smells amazing; though sitting quite a few feet away, he can smell her scent now…like the pages of an old, forgotten book, freshly laundered bedsheets, vanilla ice cream on a hot summer day. He wonders what she’d look like licking an ice cream cone, cream dripping down her chin and neck, those large brown eyes focused on his…

Tom pulls the folds of his robe over his lap. Forsythia notices and has the audacity to giggle.

“Enjoying the view, are we?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers tersely. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. Hermione turns her head toward the sun. She does not wear face paint or rouge, but her cheeks tend toward rosy, as if she spends a lot of time outside.

But he _knows_ that she does not. He’s been monitoring her; she’s rarely outdoors, preferring the Great Hall or the library. He finds her there at all hours of the day, her pert little nose stuck in a book, her dark eyes darting quickly from one page to the next.

He’s always tempted to pester her with a “What are you reading?” or some other stupid introduction—but no, no, he can’t do that.

He has to shift the balance of power in their relationship.

While she may be his Alpha, she cannot feel like she owns him, cannot waltz around like she’s his master.

And in order to do that, he must ignore her.

For people _always_ want what they can’t have.

And in order for her to feel she _cannot have him_ , to then be at _his_ mercy and _his_ beck and call, he must not pay her any mind.

He must not pay her any mind at the expense of his mental health ( _Alpha Moste Wanted_ did say that Alphas and Omegas must mate regularly, at least three weeks out of the month, or they risk mentally breaking down).

He must ignore her at the expense of his physical health (ie, his _balls,_ which have been exceedingly blue; jerking it every night to the thought of bending her over a desk and penetrating her tight, virginal snatch has not been doing it for him…enough).

To the girl’s credit, she ignores him as well.

After that incident in Transfiguration, the one that had her storming out of class and Tom grinning at how _easy_ she was to manipulate, she’s kept a tight leash on her self-control.

She does not ever look at him, except to glare on the few, electric occasions their eyes meet by accident. She keeps her distance in the two classes they share, never leaving less than four rows between them. During class, she proves to be quite a competent witch in her own right, never taking more than a couple of tries to grasp a spell. And even so, Tom suspects she’s holding back. She’s proficient in wandless magic, for gods’ sake; casting a working protean charm shouldn’t take two attempts for someone of her experience and power.

At mealtimes, Hermione sticks close to her Ravenclaw acquaintances, who’ve quickly absorbed her into the group. Hadley, Judith, and Noelle, catty as they are, don’t worry Tom. Neither does the Gaspard boy, who anybody with a working brain can tell is homosexual. And she does not spend enough time with the Fronsac boy for Tom to consider him competition.

The students of the other houses, however, have been less quick to trust her; though the gossiping has died down with Quidditch season on the horizon, Forsythia and her two best friends, Camilla Greengrass and Honora Carrow, have not forgotten Hermione’s transgression.

In the week Hermione’s been a student, they’ve attempted to jinx her twice already. Both times out of Tom’s view, of course, and both times unsuccessful.

But still.

Tom puts Rosier on Hermione’s tail to ensure she doesn’t die. Rosier reports back that she’s more than capable of taking care of herself. It’s the reason why neither Honora nor Camilla are sitting in the stands currently.

(They’re locked in their dorm puking their guts out.)

He smirks at the thought.

Only one Slytherin has taken a shine to Hermione.

He nudges the girl now, sitting at his side, her small, plain face distorted into a scowl.

“What’s the matter, Darcy?” he asks. “You look like you’ve got a frog in your throat.”

“I find Quidditch barbaric.” She pouts. “It’s just another way for wizards to bludgeon each other, _sometimes_ to death, and to generally be vicious and immoral.”

On the pitch, Avery whacks a bludger at a scrawny would-be Seeker. “That’s an acute observation,” Tom says. “Especially for someone as young as you.”

She bristles, pale face reddening. “I’m not _that_ young—!”

“Twelve is a little on the young side,” Tom says. “But it’s good to have opinions at a young age. It means you have character.”

Darcy huffs. “Why are you _always_ like this?”

He feigns innocence. “Like what?”

“You’re always lecturing me about things! It’s _so…_ frustrating _.”_ The girl crosses her arms over her chest.

Tom laughs. “You should be grateful. I’m imparting my wisdom upon you.”

“Seventeen is hardly old. How can you claim to be wise?”

“I’ve seen and done a lot.” Tom shrugs, glancing at Forsythia, who has clearly grown bored with their conversation. “Isn’t that right, Forsythia?”

She bats her eyelashes, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Absolutely! Tom can do _a lot_.”

Darcy groans. “You two are _so_ gross.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Tom asks, lifting the back of Forsythia’s hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her gloved hand.

Forsythia giggles. “Tom, you are so naughty!”

“Anything for my princess,” he says.

Darcy feigns gagging noises. “You know what? I don’t have to sit here and watch this.” She leaps to her feet and wipes dust from her robes, which are slightly too long for her tiny frame.

“Don’t trip on your way down,” Tom suggests.

The girl stamps her foot. “I don’t know why anybody likes you!” She scrambles from their row to the one beneath, then the one below that. She squeezes her way in between Hermione and Hadley, who happily make space for her. 

“ _Why_ do you tolerate that tramp?” Forsythia asks, her lips too close to his face. “She’s _so_ annoying. And she obviously has a crush on you.”

“I find it flattering more than anything,” he says, leaning away slightly.

“I knew it. You have a _huge,_ needy ego, don’t you?” Forsythia raises her eyebrows. “I know you do…”

Tom must resist the urge to roll his eyes. “However did you guess?”

“It’s clear in the way you indulge _everybody_ , Tom.” She smirks. “You can’t allow anybody to think poorly on you. You have an impulse to be… _loved_.”

She bats her eyelashes along with the last word and leans into him expectantly.

He presses a kiss to her cheek, as chaste as he can manage. “You know me very well.”

“I do, Tom,” she sighs, pulling away reluctantly. “You’re not like the other boys. Sometimes I think you are _way_ too good.”

Tom openly rolls his eyes this time. He wants to tell the bitch, _that’s the whole point,_ but he can’t, because he has a reputation to uphold: that of the perfect, upstanding student.

How hard can that be to understand?

 

 

 

Very hard, apparently, and not just for Forsythia. At a meeting of his Knights later that evening—which doubles as a “celebration” for Avery and Lestrange landing the two beater roles on the team—Avery _dares_ to complain that, “We haven’t done anything, Riddle. And it’s been over a _week._ ”

“Yeah! What’s on the horizon, Riddle?” Lestrange stretches his arms across the bar of the Three Broomsticks. They had sneaked into Hogsmeade via the statue of the one-eyed witch not half an hour ago, and Lestrange has already gotten sloshed on firewhisky.

Tom sips from his tonic water and bitters—alcohol-free, thank you very much. He’s never been one for inebriation. He hates to lose control of his senses.

“Did Madame Rosmerta hire you to clean their bar?” he asks Lestrange. “Your sleeves are filthy.”

Lestrange raises both sleeves, drenched now in whiskey and mead. He sniffs them. “What? What are you talking about? They look _fine.”_

Abraxas Malfoy snickers a few seats down. “Get a hold of yourself, man. You are literally one glass in.”

“Yeah? Well at least I’m drinking the _real_ stuff. The _good_ stuff.” Lestrange steps off his stool and sways, a dark brown curl of hair bouncing comically atop his head. “What are _you_ drinking, Malfoy?” He approaches the blonde’s stool, pokes him in the chest. “ _Butterbeer,_ that’s what. Like a puny _third year girl—”_

“At least I’m not embarrassing myself in front of my liege and sovereign lord.” Malfoy smirks, tipping his white-blonde head to the side. “That’s what you guys call Tom, isn’t it?”

“We call him that because we _want_ to,” Rosier chimes in from Tom’s left. The sixth year and youngest of his Knights pushes his spectacles up his nose.

Tom pats him on the back. “I appreciate that sentiment. But have you forgotten all the training you went through to remember to call me that?”

Rosier flushes red and hiccups. “Oh, no, my lord. Never. How could I forget—”

“That’s right.” Tom sips from his tonic water again.

Avery tosses back his own glass of firewhisky and shouts, like a maniac. “ _Woooooooo!_ That’s the stuff right there, guys.” He wrangles Lestrange away from Malfoy, and the two push and shove themselves onto the worn leather couch by the hearth across the room. They fall on top of one another for a second, then challenge each other to a thumb war.

Tom rethinks his decision to make them Knights.

“I can smell your regret all the way from here,” Malfoy drawls.

“We could definitely use some brains on our team.” Tom smiles, all white teeth. “Are you still interested?”

“Thinking on it.” Malfoy signals for Madame Rosmerta, eyeing them covertly from the farthest corner of the bar. She is buxom and fair and _far_ too young to be a “Madame.”

“Miss Rosmerta,” Malfoy quips, jiggling his empty mug. “A refill, if you will.”

“Of course.” The barmaid smiles.

Tom motions to her. She blushes a deeper shade of red.

“Anything he orders is on me,” he says. “If you will.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Really, Riddle? On _you?”_ His blue eyes dart over Tom’s clothes.

They are of fine quality, Tom knows, although it’s hard not to grip his glass a little tighter. _Malfoy is only doing this to be an asshole. Rich, privileged prick that he is..._

Something catches Tom’s eye: a movement at the window. The appearance of two male faces, identical, pale, pointy-chined, and blue-eyed. They sport hair like Malfoy’s, slicked back and white blonde.

“You don’t happen to have any cousins, do you, Malfoy?” Tom nods toward the window.

Malfoy is busy chucking Miss Rosmerta under the chin. He answers belatedly, “What?” 

The two boys stare at Tom for a long second, unblinking. Tom stares back, intrigued. They don’t look like Hogwarts students. Where are their parents, and what are they doing up so late? And on a dark autumn night like this…

“Are you sure you don’t have little cousins, Malfoy?” Tom turns away from the window.

When he turns back, the two boys have gone, leaving Tom with a feeling of mild dread in their wake. He reaches for his wand in his sweater pocket.

“No little cousins,” Malfoy says, finally looking out the empty window, a lipstick mark on his face. “I’m the only Malfoy born this century.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowooww don't kill me 'cuz there's no sex (YET). I S2G i t ' s c o m i n g. I'M _blasting_ Loft Music by The Weeknd  & WRITING IT RIGHT NOW. 
> 
> Just wanted to intro Tom's POV and...build things...yes....indeed.... /scurries into a dark corner and hides


	6. the confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may just be the HORNIEST, KINKIEST shit I’ve written in my whole entire life.....like no joke, I had to restart this chapter several times because it wasn't horny enough. So. 
> 
> plz enjoy

 

The semester continues.

The skies outside are blue and cloudless, the grass still very green, the only hint of autumn on the horizon a chilly breeze that dances over the sunny grounds.

Students take advantage of the vestiges of summer, get caught snogging in various states of undress behind bushes and under trees and around the banks of the Great Lake.

Tom is often the one to catch them. He docks points apologetically on the outside but, on the inside, with deep satisfaction and schadenfreude.

Because why should they get to make out when he cannot?

It’s a petty sentiment, he’s well aware, but he can’t help himself. His Alpha has been ignoring him. Diligently. He’s spotted her sitting by the lake a few times, thankfully alone, but she never glances up when he walks near her, and he has to try very hard not to be offended.

He tells himself that they are two people playing a game is all. This reprieve cannot last. She cannot nurse her wounded pride forever. She _will_ come crawling back to him at some point. It is built into her biology as his Alpha. _A &O_ by Alisador Potenziatore had stated in no uncertain terms that “ _Regardless of disputes, disagreements, or falling outs, Alphas_ _always_ _return to their Omegas. They may try to satiate their sexual appetite with a variety of partners and in a variety of ways, but ultimately, they return to their pre-destined mates._

_“It is impossible for them to stray.”_

And so Tom waits for her to run back to him. Patiently.

Like a snake in the grass, he waits. Very. Patiently.

Despite the flaring of his nostrils, the salivation of his mouth, the instant hardening of his cock anytime he enters a room she’s already in.

He can always smell her before he can see her. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, she’s taken to standing in a far corner of the room, opposite where he typically stands, and even so, he can scent her as if she were naked right in front of him…the smell of her sopping wet cunt, notes of musk and sweat and something sweet too, a butterscotch pudding, a salted caramel bite.

And she just _loves_ to cross her arms over her chest, his little vixen—or, more accurately, _under_ her chest, her arms positioned in such a way to push her rounded, plump tits upward, the peaks of her hardened nipples straining against her shirt anytime someone opens a window…

An elbow to the side. Malfoy hissing, “Riddle. You are staring at the girl again.”

Tom looks away instantly, trains his gaze on the floor. He clears his throat, folds his own arms over his chest and flexes a muscle or two to alleviate the rush of blood in his nether regions.

Malfoy smirks knowingly. “I know you’ve been toying with the Parkinson girl, but de Grainville, too? Really, Riddle? I doubt she’s even pure-blooded. Though I can’t say I’ve ever said no to a dirty girl—”

“Shut your mouth, Abraxas.” Tom turns slowly toward the blonde boy. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Is that a threat?” Malfoy raises both his eyebrows.

“Of course it is,” Tom says coolly.

“Want it duke it out?” Malfoy pulls out his wand, points toward the center of the classroom where a few students have already started on today’s practice spells.

Tom nods. They walk out onto the dueling space. The other students make way for the pair, conditioned to expect an exciting match-up anytime Tom Riddle steps into the ring.

But Tom does not let Malfoy catch a breath before he’s got him stunned and subdued. Something primitive and possessive runs through his veins at the thought of somebody else, _anybody else_ touching Hermione Jean Granger, his Alpha, _his, his, his, his…_

She’s watching Malfoy whine and writhe on the ground now, something like a sneer curling those perfect pink lips. 

 _Look at me,_ Tom wills her to _look at me_.

But she doesn’t.

 

 

 

The semester drags on.

Autumn storms the castle grounds with a vengeance. The skies grow cloudy and gray, mirroring his mood. The leaves on the many trees scattered about campus turn every shade of yellow, orange, and red. 

Couples who had been snogging sweetly behind bushes and under trees turn into couples groping wildly in darkened alcoves and in empty classrooms, eager hands down pants, callused fingers up skirts.

Tom starts to _relish_ dishing out detention.

He simply _relishes_ it.

Because why should they fuck when he cannot?

Why should anybody be able to do anything that he cannot? Why should anybody eat, for instance, when his throat seems to have forgotten how to work, every bite he forces down dry and bland? Why should anybody pay attention and take notes in class when he seems to have forgotten how to concentrate, every waking thought trained on what Hermione Jean Granger is doing right now and has she forgotten about him?

Has she forgotten about the other half of her soul? It’s been weeks since they’ve last touched, days since they’ve even made eye contact.

He hungers for her, and he lusts for her, and he misses her, gods’ above, what is this empty feeling in his heart…?

At the first sight of her _not_ sitting alone on the banks of the Great Lake—but with a boy (with Adrian Fronsac, a tall, dark, and handsome boy, fucking hell)—Tom decides he cannot go on like this.

He cannot be rendered a husk of a man by a girl, by the round curves of her hips, the bare skin at the nape of her neck whenever she ties her hair up. He is a Dark Lord in the making, the most powerful wizard to have ever graced the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

He will force her hand. He will reclaim the power and control he has maintained so carefully in every other aspect of his life.

And so on the first weekend of October, he embarks upon a new plan of attack. One that does not ignore his biology. Because he can’t _kill_ her, gods damn it. Every single book on their bond has reiterated that the death of one partner by the hand of the other does not end well for either.

(And Tom Marvolo Riddle does _not_ want to die. He’s known death all his life. It had been a constant companion at the orphanage; even now, he can still remember the small, unmoving bodies of the children who had passed from pneumonia, influenza, any and every number of diseases. He can still remember hearing how his own mother had stumbled up the steps of the orphanage and had passed with nothing for her son but a name.

From what the nurses had told him growing up, their voices cold and apathetic, Merope Gaunt had not even _tried_ to live, not for a baby boy of her own flesh and blood, who needed her tender love and care and all the things he cannot have now.)

Anyway.

His plan is simple enough. He’d learned in his second year how to sneak into the other Houses’ common rooms. Ravenclaw had always been shockingly easy to access, not requiring secret passageways or passwords. Just a working brain to answer an enchanted door’s questions. And Tom Riddle has never wanted for brain power.

It’s the climbing up the steps to the girls’ tower that is tricky, what with the stairway’s penchant for turning into a slide for the naughty boys that step onto it. Such intricate warding spells require a deep knowledge of magic and effort to undo.

But Tom Riddle is brilliant, and he’s never wanted for effort. He unwards the stairway quickly and makes his way to Hermione’s dormitory.

He opens the door, under a disillusionment charm. Early afternoon sunlight streams through four high windows, illuminating lavish decorations of blue velvet, stone walls lined with tall mahogany bookshelves.

It is also empty, as he had expected—it’s the first Hogsmeade weekend of the semester after all. Almost every seventh year student has bolted for the Three Broomsticks or Madame Puddifoot’s.

Hermione, however, had not gone. Darcy had let it slip last night that she would be working on her time-travel project in the library. (As if she would _dare_ to leave him behind here, horny and unfucked.)

Tom makes his way to Hermione’s bed. It is easy to tell which one is hers, given the sweet scent emanating from her bedsheets, neatly made up.

He untucks them in one sweeping motion. Then he sits down upon her bed, sheds his cloak, and leans back against the headboard. He stuffs her pillow behind his back—but not before burying his nose in it and breathing _in_ , indulgently. _Mmmmm_ ….

He kicks off his shoes, his cock hardening to be in her private, personal space. To ease the pressure on his growing erection, he unbuttons his trousers and unzips his fly.

She will be back any minute now. And when she returns, he intends that she find him in a very compromising position, one she won’t be able to resist: her Omega sitting on her bed, playing with his cock, inviting her to do the same.

Her eyes will be glued to his pale hand stroking the length of his own shaft. He slicks it now with the most convenient form of lubrication ever: his own pre-cum, which his body has produced in excess since the first swelling and presentation of his knot two springs ago, when he had discovered his Slytherin bloodline.

He thinks about it now, being the sole living heir of one of the greatest sorcerors of all time. What would high and mighty Salazar Slytherin think of Tom Marvolo Riddle massaging the head of his own dick, squeezing his balls gently in eager anticipation of putting on a show for a no-name girl from another timeline?

Tom cannot imagine Salazar Slytherin being particularly proud.

Which somehow makes it feel all the more better. All the more naughty and dirty and _bad_ , and _ohhhhhhh_ , he cannot _wait_ for the main course to arrive. How delicious it will be when she steps into the room and sees how slutty he is for her, and _ohhhhhhh_ , how she will _hate_ him and _resent_ him, and then, if all goes according to plan, _love_ him rough and sloppy.

He pulls out her wand, pretty as its owner, vine wood, 10 and 3/4 inches and lifts the disillusionment charm from his body. Now to make it so, so fun—he holds her wand parallel to his dick and then just rolls it against his fluids until the handle of her wand is wet.

So very wet.

Just as he slicks it with another coat of his pre-cum, however, his Alpha decides to open the door.

Excitement courses through his veins. Brightens his eyes, widens his smile. Makes his cock twitch in his hand.

Hermione has no words for him, his gorgeous girl, her arms full of books. She drops them. She turns quickly to lock the door behind her.

“Good afternoon,” he says to her back. He strokes himself once, twice—and it’s such a filthy thrill to play with himself in front of another person.

Her shoulders tense. She turns around slowly, her expression guarded as she replies, low and quiet.

“What are you doing here, Riddle?”

He pumps his cock again. “Hanging out.”

She swallows. “Get off my bed,” she says. “Get—get out of my room.”

“I can’t,” he replies, biting his lower lip. She may be trying to control her desire, his little minx, but he can see it in her eyes, in the pitch blackness of her iris that it’s _working_.

He rubs the underside of his balls. “I’m busy.”

“I can…see that.” A corner of her mouth twitches, and his adorable Alpha can’t help herself; her gaze latches onto his naughty hand. “Is that—is that my wand?”

He rolls her wand against his slippery cock. “Indeed, it is. How perceptive of you.”

A moment of silence. He can hear her start to pant from across the room. He can see her curling her hands into fists.

“That’s mine,” she gasps. “Give it—back.”

“Come and get it.” He licks a sticky strand of pre-cum off the tip of her wand.

She groans. “ _Fuck._ I’m serious, Riddle. I’m not—playing around—”

“How disappointing.” He arches an eyebrow and then presses her wand to his cock again. He rolls the wood against his balls. “I was hoping you’d be in the playing mood.”

She does something interesting then. She shuts her dark eyes, breathes in deeply through her nose. She stretches her arms above her head. She rolls her neck from side to side.

He wants to laugh, watching her. She looks very much like an athlete preparing for a game.

“What’s this?” he asks, holding the handle of her wand to the slick head of his erection.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” She opens her eyes; they are totally black.

She paces toward the bed, toward him, a predator on a hunt.

And that damned Omega side of him shivers, _literally shivers_ at her approach. It’s so natural and submissive a feeling, and _fuck, Tom, no, don’t give up your control_ —

But he doesn’t stand a chance, not when she shoves him back against the headboard, when she straddles his lap, and he’s dreamed of this moment night after night for _weeks on end._ He sinks lower onto the bed, and she takes advantage of this to lean over him, to tuck the length of his weeping cock between her legs. Her free hand grabs his wrist and squeezes _hard_ , once.

At the _perfect_ sensation of her skin on his, his hand opens and drops her wand.

She grabs it and runs her palm up its sticky length.

“I can’t believe you just did that to my wand,” she sighs.

“Did what?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Violate it.”

“‘Violate’?” he asks. “I’d call what I did an _improvement—_ I _—”_

His jaw drops at the sight of her sticking her wet, pink tongue out of her mouth and licking the length of the wand, all 10 and 3/4 inches, his pre-ejaculate fluid coating her tastebuds.

She smacks her lips and hums. “ _Mmmmmm_. Tastes just like you, baby.”

He whines straight up, a feminine and soft noise, and no, no, no, _Tom keep it together—_

He bucks upward, seeking friction; to rub his throbbing dick against the thin fabric of her panties, which, to his satisfaction, are already quite damp.

“You are such a slutty, eager boy,” she says, lifting herself a bit higher to tease him, to deprive him of her wetness.

His cock twitches and he grunts in rebellion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, leaning down and suckling at the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. “Playing with your hard, beautiful dick on my bed. Making a mess of my wand. You just can’t bear it, can you? You _can’t wait_ for me to fuck you, can you?”

He whines _again_ , starting to pant for her, his Alpha, the ultimate bringer of his pleasure—his perfect and gorgeous goddess of fertility, future mother of his children, he can’t wait to fill her all the way up with his babes—

“Who said anything about _you_ fucking _me_?” he gasps as she starts to roll her moistened panties against the long shaft of his cock. “ _Uhhnnnn…I_ will—I will—” He sighs, a high and satisfied noise, at the feel of her kissing behind his ear, her nibbling at his earlobe, and ohhhhhhh, it’d be so sweet to kiss her for the first time in _weeks._

“What was that?” she asks, her smiling lips against the shell of his ear.

He can’t seem to recall, grinding his needy cock against her slickened, creamy underwear. “ _Gods_ , you are _so wet—”_

“Only for you, baby.” She peppers kisses down his neck, tugs at the collar of his shirt until she can kiss the thin, white skin over his collarbone. “I’m always _soooooo_ wet for you. Every class we share, every time you look at me—” She kisses his lips, and it is so perfect, a sweet jolt to his cock. “I’ve creamed myself so many times just looking at your face,” she confesses, soft and conciliatory and why is this the best thing he’s ever heard in his life? His heart pounds, and he can’t see anyone but her: the perfection that is her straight nose, the porcelain smoothness of her skin, the pink flush high on her cheeks.

“Are you going to fuck me?” he asks softly, more earnest than he’s been in _years._

“I’d like to,” she mutters. Another tender kiss on his lips. And then another, and another, and another—he is flush with joy, and he has never felt so happy…

“But you have been a bad boy,” she says, suddenly stilling the rocking of her panty-clad cunt.

His heart skips a beat. “Have I really?” he asks, eyes half-lidded.

“Yes.” She smirks, her eyes black and trained on him, her gaze hungry. Greedy.

And vengeful?

Before he can process what this all means, she’s moved off of him. His cock is both cold from the air of the room and warm from her sticky wetness. A bizarre feeling, and wonderful.

Even more wonderful is the spontaneous striptease she decides to put on. Normally so reserved and wound tight, Hermione stands up, atop the bed, looking very much at home as she unzips her gray, pleated skirt, torturously slowly. A small smile on her face the whole time.

The skirt drops onto the bed. She kicks it aside and hooks her fingers around the band of her panties. They are a light blue color originally, a dark blue over her moistened cunt. Tom watches from the bed, awed, as she pushes the cloth down over her hips, past her thighs: slowly, _torturously slowly_ revealing her glistening, pink pussy lips.

“Oh my gods,” he stammers, his heart starting to palpitate, and _shit_ , has he died and gone to the most perfect afterlife? 

He doesn’t deserve this, he is not a good person, and “How did you—” he pants, his eyes open and glued to her _dripping_ wet cunt. Clear juices slide down her leg. “ _Bare_ —?”

“Being hairless makes it easier to show you this, my love.” A wicked grin spreads across her face. She uses two teasing fingers to spread her wet pussy lips open, wide open, for his perusal.

His dick throbs in time with his heartbeat.

She traces one finger over a rounded nub at the top of her inner pink folds. “This is my clitoris.” She rubs it with a single knuckle. “ _Mmmmmmmm._ It’s all swollen for you, baby.”

“ _Fuck,”_ he hisses, squeezing the base of his shaft, a finger swiping over his needy knot. “I want to taste you, please. _Please._ ”

He sits forward, leaning toward her fragrant cunt: an impulse that cannot be fought.

A stockinged foot at his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

“No, no. There’ll be no tasting for a bad boy.” She drops to her knees, her face open and wildly happy, and joy becomes her, Tom thinks. He wants to see her like this always.

But being the cruel mistress that she is, she deprives him of her sweet smile. She wriggles into the space behind him, scooting him off the headboard and making him lean back against her supple breasts, still regrettably covered by her shirt and sweater.

“Should we—take off our clothes—”

“Shhhhh.” She presses a hand over his mouth, silencing him; she spreads her legs wide apart on either side of him.

She reaches around and grabs a handful of his cock.

Tom moans, breathy and low, his eyes fluttering closed. He definitely likes this, yes, he can live with this.

She moves her hand off his mouth to cup his balls, to slick his shaft with his pre-cum. She kisses the back of his neck.

“This is a punishment,” she says in between kisses. “I am punishing you.”

He relaxes in her arms, in her assured grip, clever hands pumping his slick dick. “I don’t think you—understand the concept—of a punishment.”

“Oh, but I do.” She strokes him slowly. Tom believes in his ability to hold on, if he has to…’cuz he will _not_ cum if not in her pussy; oh no, he will not leave her bed, her room, her _life_ until his spunk has coated every part of her womb, has dripped down her inner thigh and soaked the bedsheets beneath…

She speeds up slightly, runs the flat sides of her fingernails against his frenulum. She bites his earlobe.

“ _Fuckkkkkkkkk_ ,” he exhales, his head lolling to one side. “What are you—trying to—accomplish?”

“I’m going to edge you to the very brink,” she murmurs. “And then I’m going to stop. And then I’ll do it again, and again, and _again_ , until you just _can’t take it anymore…”_ She _squirms_ behind him, and Tom really wishes they were naked right now, if only so that he could feel her wet pussy grind against his back.

“I’m not _that_ easy to control.” He writhes and sets a hand atop hers, neither helping nor deterring her slow pumping of his cock, but she grumbles all the same.

“Fuck, baby, don’t interrupt me.”

“I’m not. I’m just resting my hand,” he grunts.

“You are so annoying,” she mumbles, before pressing a kiss behind his ear. “You’re always ruining my plans.”

“Am I?” He wraps his larger hand completely around her small, smooth one. He guides her strokes now, up and down, up and down. “Honestly, I believe compromise is better—better than punishment, don’t you agree?”

Her free hand palms and massages his sensitive balls. “In most cases, yes.” She licks the underside of his jaw. “But you’ve been so bad, _so bad_ , baby.”

“For ignoring you?” he asks.

“For other things, too.” She moves her free hand on top of his: the one with the Gaunt family ring, gleaming darkly by the afternoon light.

She fingers the silver band of his ring. “Tell me, baby. How much of my soulmate lives inside this ring?”

His heart drops. “How—how do you—?”

“How do I know?” she finishes the sentence for him. “I know everything there is to know about my little fucktoy, including his _very_ worst habits. Like his penchant for splitting his soul.”

Tom feels like he should get up and leave and never come back because he’s been found out, fuck, shit, and _damn,_ but his cock has a mind of its own, clearly; it is only _harder_ than it had been before, and all because she’s just laid out his sins so clearly, so plain as day, so fully true…

(His deepest, darkest secrets spilling from her mouth, her hand tight around his dick.)

He groans. “I haven’t yet—the ring—not the ring yet—”

She squeezes his shaft, and together they pump him up, down, up, down. “So only the diary?”

He nods, his cheeks flushing with either shame or pleasure. “Only the diary.”

“Good.” She starts to stroke him harder, faster, and he does not fight it. “Keep it at one, and I will reward you, baby.” She nibbles his earlobe and whispers, “I _promise.”_

“What—what kind of reward?” he asks, shutting his eyes and starting to rut his hips upward, in time with her strokes.

She grinds her pussy against his lower back. “ _Mmmmm_ …what would you like, huh? I’ll let you have whatever you want.”

“I just want—to cum inside you,” he pants. “Anytime I like.”

“Anytime you like?”

“Yes.” He breathes out shakily as her free hand returns to cupping and rolling his balls. “And you can’t—talk to other men.”

“But that’s inconvenient,” she says.

“But I w-want it…”

“Jealous baby.” She nips his neck. “Fine. But only when it’s convenient for me.”

“No,” he whines. “I’m serious…”

“My life does not revolve around you, baby.”

“Well, it should.” He turns his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, to watch her face in profile. “I want your life to revolve around me, above—above all else…”

She speeds up suddenly, and _gods damn it_ , he feels like he is close, so close—closer still to cumming when she tells him that, “You’re important to me, baby, and I want you to live your best possible life, and I _really_ want to see you cum right now, you messy little slut, my beautiful, living fucktoy…I’m going to ride you until you can’t take it, I _swear_ to gods, baby—”

“Ughhhh……!” He’s on the _very brink_ of cumming when she stops, this cruel fucking woman; he cries out in frustration, “Hermione, I swear to gods—”

She slips out from behind him and simply mutters, “Don’t you want to cum inside me, baby? You _just_ said you want to cum inside me…”

“Anytime I want,” he nods. “Yes. _Yes…”_

She yanks his pants off, and his boxers follow quickly.

“Alright, baby. Let’s not waste a single drop…” She swings a leg over him and lowers her _soaking_ wet pussy lips to the shaft of his dick.

He pants, open-mouthed, and raises his head to watch her rut her juicy pink cunt along his cock. She does not let him penetrate her just yet, but even this sopping wet heat and friction is a slice of heaven.

“Please,” he moans. “Please…I can’t…I’m going to cum soon…”

Hermione bends over him to kiss and suck at his lips until they feel swollen and tender. “You’re so sexy, baby. I want you inside me.”

He nods, sliding his hands up her shirt to fondle the soft, smooth skin of her back. “Yes, please,” he begs. “Please…please…”

“Good boy,” she sighs into his ear. “My perfect, beautiful boy.” She reaches for the head of his drenched, throbbing dick and, in the most perfect moment Tom Marvolo Riddle has ever experienced in his life, slides him right into her tight, wet hole, and—

 _“Fuuuuuuckkkkk….”_ His hands squeeze her waist, unforgiving—he’s _too far gone_. “You are so tight—and hot—”

“Yes, baby, only for you,” she groans above him. “And you’re not even all the way in yet— _oh—”_

She sinks atop his cock, takes him to the hilt; the walls of her cunt clench around the swell of his knot, and _holy fucking shit_ , he’s never felt so hot or at home anywhere in his life. Gone, mentally, he only knows that he must do one thing and one thing only: and that is to _thrust_ upward.

And his perfect Alpha, she meets him thrust for thrust. She _rides_ him and moans loudly all the while, quieting down only to kiss him, their tongues battling sloppily, exchanging spit, and frankly it does not take too long for the pressure to build and build and _build_ again for Tom, and all he can see is her pink, flushed face, her eyelids heavy and drooping, his saliva at the corner of her mouth, the sight of his own cock sliding in, deeply, and then out of her sopping, slippery cunt: in and then out, his fat knot growing and growing with each thrust, suddenly making pulling _out_ impossible—

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes,”_ she chants above him, squeezing her eyes closed as she rocks. “Fill me with your cream, baby…C’mon, daddy, give me all your hot cum. It’s what you’re good for, right? It’s all that you’re good for—c’mon—fill me _up…_ ”

He does as he is told, cumming harder than he’s ever done so in his life, with a shout and a groan at her dirty, dirty words, at the promise of spurting all his white cream up her cervix, drenching her womb.

And his wonderful knot, this perfect creation of soulmate science—it prevents them from parting, and so Tom is able to shoot rope after rope of spunk up Hermione’s perfect, tight cunt, with none of that cream able to escape the spot where they are joined.

“Holy shit—I can feel you _filling me up_ ,” she groans above him, and he watches greedily as she starts to tremble and to shudder as his cock twitches inside her, pulsing endless rivulets of cum into her.

“I’m so full,” she whines, tossing her head back, the brown waves of her hair bouncing as she continues to rock and to tremble atop him, and then in a moment of horny synchrony, both their hands reach for her swollen clit.

Hermione drops her own hand to allow for the pads of his fingers to rub her clit once, twice in small circles, and then she tenses, muscles stiffening up all over, her pussy walls clenching _hard_ around his cock, and how is it possible for anything to feel soooooo goooooood?

“Oh my _gods,”_ she moans and slumps forward, on top of him.

He wraps his arms around her waist, presses her sweat-slicked forehead against his own as she jerks and shudders in his arms.

“Are you cumming?” he murmurs, a slight smile pulling the corners of his mouth upward. Because of course she is.

She nods slowly, sleepily. “Yeah…”

Tom reaches between them, to where his cock is still buried, hard and deep inside her cunt, creaming her inner walls still. A stream of hot, white spunk has trickled out from between them, past his knot, onto his balls and down onto the bedsheets; he smears two fingers with cum and then raises them to his Alpha’s open, panting mouth.

Her dark gaze bores into his as she sucks his cum off his fingertips.

“Delicious,” she says, reaching down herself to where they are joined. She swirls her own fingertips in his cum. “How long does this last, baby?”

He wraps his arms tightly around her waist, shooting another two, three ropes of cum into her body. “I want to say—another—five, ten—minutes?”

The return of her happy, glorious grin. She licks her cum-coated fingers clean. “ _Mmmmmm_. I can live with that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find your local smut writer at [wintersmolder.tumblr.com](http://wintersmolder.tumblr.com) 8) 
> 
> bring holy water because she needs jesus, clearly


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